


Mad, Bad and Dangerous.  A Frankenstein Tribute.

by Ghislainem70



Series: The Indestructibles [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Action/Adventure, As close as I get to crack, BAMF!John, BDSM, Blood Kink, Byron - Freeform, D/s, Dom!John, Fencing, Gothic, Literary pretension, M/M, Mary Shelley - Freeform, Orgasm Denial, Percy Shelley - Freeform, Riding Crop, Role Playing, Whipping, breath play, dark!john, dr John polidori, fencing kink, sub!Sherlock, sword kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2017-10-21 20:13:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/229296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghislainem70/pseuds/Ghislainem70
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I was privileged to see BCC and Jonny Lee Miller's last two performances as The Creature and Victor Frankenstein at the National Theatre in London.  This fic is the result.</p><p>A quasi-AU, part of The Indestructibles verse, but can be read out of order as it stands alone.   Sherlock and John are cast as Byron and Dr. John Polidori in a reality show set during the writing of Mary Shelley's "Frankenstein." A dark journey that changes them both.  Fencing kink and BDSM scenarios.  Just your usual Byronic scene.  Nothing too alarming.  The title comes from Lady Caroline Lamb, who famously remarked of Lord Byron that he was "mad, bad and dangerous to know."</p><p>Part of the Indestructibles verse. COMPLETE.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Swordplay

 

"Have you ever watched ‘Regency House Party?’" Sherlock inquired. John was mystified.

"I don’t think we got that one in Afghanistan," he deadpanned.

Irene Adler had invited Sherlock to participate in the filming of a reality show in Switzerland. It was to be based upon the famous summer of 1816, in which Lord Byron, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Mary Shelley, Mary’s half-sister and Byron’s lover Claire Clairmont, and Byron’s personal doctor and confidante Dr. John Polidori, all summered at the Villa Diodati at Lake Geneva.

The summer of 1816, which came to be known as the "Haunted Summer," was a momentous one in English literature: Mary Shelly penned there the immortal novel "Frankenstein, or, the Modern Prometheus."

And also, during which Polidori wrote the first vampire story, presaging Dracula: "The Vampyre." Lord Byron made important additions to "Childe Harold" and brought forth the "Prisoner of Chillon." Bysshe Shelley completed the poems "Hymn to Intellectual Beauty" and "Mont Blanc."

Sherlock had a copy of Regency House Party on DVD, a gift from Irene, who after her triumphant turn as Ophelia in Hamlet had just been cast as Mary Shelley, the plum role in this new reality series. It was to be filmed in Switzerland, Lake Geneva, in the actual villa that had been the scene of the birth of "Frankenstein" - the Villa Diodati. Sherlock and John had a little over a week to prepare and travel to Geneva.

Sherlock and John settled down to watch. John was astounded, and was soon roaring with laughter, tears rolling down his cheeks.

"You’re not serious!! We’re going to be wearing tight breeches and waistcoats! Wigs? No, no, no!!! You didn’t tell me this when we agreed to go," John said darkly, realizing that he was getting the bad end of the bargain.

Sherlock had agreed to go, to play Byron, on the stipulation that John could come as well and be cast in the role of Doctor Polidori. And the entire trip was a bargain between Sherlock on the one hand, and Mycroft and John on the other; a trip to a private villa in Switzerland and a little amateur theatrics, or, in the alternative, a lengthy stay in a discreet private rehab facility as penance for his recent cocaine overdose.

Sherlock was not laughing. He was staring with great concentration at the screen, absorbing detail after detail in his sponge-like brain cells. He had a biography of Byron in his lap that he was scanning at the same time.

John sighed. Other than actual crime solving, there was nothing that stirred Sherlock’s blood more than the opportunity to play-act, to adopt another personality. This would be a welcome distraction after their recent struggles with near-death at the hand of the ever-inventive, inexhaustible Jim Moriarty.

Sherlock cried out: "Utterly fantastic!! Listen to this, John:

" _A small-sword duel took place between Lord Byron_ (that’s the grandfather, called "The Wicked Lord;" not the poet) _and a Mr. Chaworth. These gentlemen were dining at the Star and Garter Tavern when heated words were exchanged . . .Mr. Chaworth turned to find Lord Byron with his sword drawn, and who exclaimed, "Draw!" Chaworth complied, and thrust immediately, passing his sword through Byron’s coat, thinking he had wounded Byron: Byron returned the thrust. The surgeon pronounced the wound a fatal one.’"_

"And look, John, Lord Byron – our poet-- was never to be seen without a short sword of his own, concealed in his walking stick. This is brilliant! -- I shall take fencing lessons," he declared, eyes gleaming.

* * *

Sherlock came home to the flat the next day bearing a quantity of new gear: padded fencing jacket, close-fitting fencing trousers, a foil, an epee, a sabre, and fencing mask. He had started private fencing lessons, and had just finished his first session, he announced.

When Sherlock emerged a bit later from the shower, pleasantly warm and damp and wearing John’s favorite blue robe, John grabbed his hand and pulled him down onto the much-abused sofa. John commenced kissing his way from neck down to chest, and stopped abruptly.

Sherlock’s chest was marked with a small quantity of small, perfectly round fresh bruises. John parted the robe to take a closer look.

"Fencing. Foil. I need to get up to speed; Gerald got in far too many touches today." Sherlock’s face radiated determination. John was transfixed by the bruises, touching them gently. Sherlock said dismissively, "It’s nothing, they don’t hurt."

John placed his palm over the bruises and looked into Sherlock’s face, surprising Sherlock with an expression that was dark and unknowable.

"I don’t like it," John said in a tone that might have been a warning.

Sherlock froze under John’s touch. They were both still for a moment. John withdrew his hand and kissed Sherlock once more over the bruises, softly, then covered them up again with the robe.

"Don’t worry," Sherlock said slowly, "I’ll get up to snuff, and it will be Gerald nursing his wounds, next time."

John kissed Sherlock deeply on the mouth, demanding now, and there was no more talk about fencing, or anything else as their mouths were otherwise pleasurably occupied.

* * *

The next fencing lesson was the following afternoon. Soon they would be going to Geneva for the filming, and Sherlock wanted to absorb as much swordsmanship as possible in that short time. Sherlock was surprised when John insisted on coming along, mumbling something about maybe he, too, would take a few lessons; get into the spirit of the enterprise.

The fencing salon was in a private studio in Great Portland Street, in a huge block of Georgian flats. There were gorgeous men coming and going in their tight-fitting fencing garb, and if John had been so inclined, there was much here to attract and amuse the eye. Since there was no finer view to be had anywhere than Sherlock in his own tight-fitting white trousers and tunic, John was in no way distracted. John borrowed a tunic and foil from the studio and stood by, watching carefully as the trainer, Gerald, put Sherlock through his paces. Sherlock was a fast learner.

Sherlock expressed a desire to work with the small sword, such as Lord Byron was known to have carried. Gerald opened a cabinet and pulled out two rather short, flexible swords in sheaths, and he described some of the basic differences to modern fencing weapons such as foil, epee and sabre, principally due to its shorter length and greater weight.

After showing Sherlock a few classic feints with the small sword, they commenced fencing. Sherlock held his own, although Gerald was clearly working with great restraint. Suddenly Gerald made a lunge, Sherlock thrust upward, and they both sprang back. After a moment, a spot of blood appeared at Sherlock’s collarbone just at top of his tunic, which had somehow come unfastened at the neck. Both men smirked and were ready to re-engage, but John with fearful speed was at Gerald’s side.

Now Gerald raised his mask and started babbling an apology as he saw Sherlock’s blood was spreading, blooming. John wrenched the sword from Gerald’s hand and dashed it to the floor with a clatter that rang out loudly in the sudden stillness. "Lesson Over. Leave. Now." He said between gritted teeth.

Gerald left, apologizing to Sherlock, who waved him off. The huge doors banged shut.

Sherlock leaned back against the wall, pulling his mask up.

John sprang upon Sherlock, gently but urgently unbuttoning and pulling down the collar of his tunic to expose the wound. It was very small, but somewhat deep, right where the tender flesh of his neck met his too-prominent collarbone. The blood welled forth steadily.

John was swearing now under his breath, looking for something clean to bind the wound with. John’s fingers and hand were quickly slicked red with Sherlock’s blood. There was a first aid cabinet against the far wall.

As John turned to go to the cabinet, Sherlock grasped John’s bloodied hand in a vise-like grip. "Bloody hell, Sherlock, let me –" John exclaimed.

Sherlock closed his eyes and put John’s bloodied fingers to his lips, sucking them slowly, voluptuously. He was gasping just a little. "Leave it," Sherlock whispered, now gazing into John’s eyes with an expression of baffled longing.

John stared at Sherlock’s bloodied lips for a long moment. The silence was deafening and there was a roaring in his ears as his heart thudded -- then skipped a few beats. Then he yanked his hand free and went swiftly to the cabinet, retrieving antiseptic and bandage.

Sherlock stared down with rapt fascination as John worked, gently cleaning away and stanching the flow of his blood, applying the stinging antiseptic to the open wound, and then carefully bandaging the small but deep cut. John buttoned up Sherlock’s tunic again almost demurely over the wound. Sherlock’s eyes were glazed now and his breath was coming in short gasps. John kissed him softly, smearing his own mouth with sticky blood, and the strangled desire under Sherlock’s lips was maddening.

John pulled back and turned abruptly away from Sherlock. He wiped his mouth. He began pacing around the studio, the tread of his footsteps against the polished wood the only sound.

John picked up the sword he had thrown to the floor. He found and deliberately replaced it in its sheath. This made a distinctive metallic hissing sound as they slid against each other, sword and sheath; and then a satisfying sort of click as they were joined together in his hands. He could feel Sherlock’s eyes burning on him.

He returned to Sherlock, his firm step now slower, deliberate. When they were face to face, John unsheathed the sword again. He raised the thin, flexible blade about a foot, then swiftly and violently whipped it downward, flat against the palm of his own hand. It made a powerful whoosh through the air and resounding sharp slap against the skin of his palm. He saw Sherlock’s entire body shudder in response.

John nodded to himself.

Taking one last step until now their lips were almost meeting again, their warm breath mingling, John said low and soft:

"Sherlock. Listen to me. I love you. And I’m warning you. Don’t start this with me. You don’t want to."

Then he wiped the blood tenderly from Sherlock’s lips and kissed him again, softly and lingeringly, and tossed the sword back to the floor.

"Believe it," he added.

He left the studio without looking back.

　


	2. Showtime

Sherlock and John arrived at Villa Diodati to find the production well underway, with crew scrambling about like mad. They were very late, the sun was setting. Before they could locate Irene Adler, view the grounds or appreciate the superb prospect of Lake Geneva, harried crew members immediately dragged them off to a smaller villa on the property, where costume, hair and makeup were situated. They were then unceremoniously separated.

The transformation took three hours.

Finally, the newly created peacocks were released to the critical examination of the crew.

Sherlock emerged and a silence fell over the assembly.

Even taller than usual in close-fitting heeled boots of black leather; tight, very tight cream-colored trousers that left nothing whatsoever to the imagination regarding Sherlock's considerable endowments; an embroidered waistcoat, over which a slim cutaway velvet coat, in emerald green. A snowy white linen shirt cascaded ruffles at his throat and wrists.

Sherlock had been provided a longish curling dark wig to emulate Byron's own famous locks, and a black velvet ribbon tied it halfway back. The effect was untamed, as though he had just risen from bed where he had been up to something exceptionally naughty.

His eyes and lips were colored a bit, and powder had been applied to his already pale complexion. Some special drops had been applied that added a strange luster to his eyes. He held a cane that concealed his sword, and experimented with walking about and tapping the ground rhythmically beside him, emulating Byron's limp.

He looked like a rock star.

He looked like a sex god.

Sherlock smirked.

And now John emerged.

He had completely refused the wig, in fact had torn it to bits so that no one could ever again attempt such an indignity; they had made do with combing his hair forward a bit, Napoleon-style, and mussing it a little. No makeup except a bit of very subtle emphasis about the eyes and brows (Polidori having been Italian).

He also wore tight fitting boots, no high heel (Polidori was notoriously short); very tight brown trousers revealing that John had nothing whatsoever to be shy about in terms of endowments; no waistcoat, but a ruffled linen shirt left open, exposing a considerable expanse of muscled chest ( pullups and pushups, military-style, in 221c); a tight-fitting brown velvet coat completed the ensemble. He also carried a sheathed sword.

He looked like a debauched rake.

He looked like a man who had had experience of women, and men, extending over many nations and three continents.

It was a testament to John's own powerful -- if possibly less exotic -- magnetism that anyone was able to tear their eyes from the vision that was Byron/Sherlock at all, but they did: in fact, more than a few of them didn't bother to look back at Sherlock after John's commanding entrance.

The assistant director burst in, apoplectic at the delays. Then, seeing the spectacular-looking pair, he applauded:

"Oh, this is much better than I hoped! Well done, everyone, well done indeed! Now, here are your notes, gentlemen. Just be natural. We'll be filming everything all the time, so don't worry about cameras, try to forget they're even there. Go, go, go! We're five hours behind schedule and we've not much light!"

John and Sherlock were thrust into a waiting carriage, a huge equipage bearing enormous letter "B"s painted on the doors. There were four black horses drawing the carriage, really a closed coach. They were shoved inside and the doors closed.

Sherlock drew the curtains across the small windows in the doors of the coach. Inside, the coach was luxuriously furnished with tufted leather couches, bookshelves containing a "traveling library" of antique-looking books appropriate to the time, built into the sides of the carriage. Artificial candelabra cast a mellow light.

There was a crystal decanter containing some brandy, and John poured them each a glass. They stared at each other, fascinated. They looked completely different, but somehow recognizably John and Sherlock. The carriage started moving, rocking in rhythm to the horses' pace.

Before another moment passed, they had fallen into each other's arms, ripping at the confining costumes, devouring each other's mouths, their teeth actually knocking together as the carriage jerked, but they didn't care.

Sherlock was down on his knees, cursing, ripping at the buttons of John's impossibly tight trousers and utterly spoiling his own – but then there was no time for anything save a few delicious strokes of the hand before the horses were stopping, and there were voices getting louder outside the coach door. "God, not yet," they both moaned in unison, panting madly and almost swallowing each other's tongues in their frantic explosion of lust.

Sherlock opened an eye. There was a tiny webcam in the corner behind the candelabra.

He toasted the camera with his brandy, and drained the glass.

Now he fumbled through his notes, still breathless --

"Polidori's diary says, _'Byron emerged from the coach and immediately fell upon the chambermaids like a thunderbolt_.' Polidori sounds jealous," Sherlock mocked, louche.

John said carelessly, "Stop it, all right, Sherlock, we're done with all of that. You wanted to do this, go knock yourself out. Seriously, Sherlock, go on, do your worst. I'm expecting your best performance, now." He grinned to show he could handle it. And he fully intended to.

Sherlock grinned back lasciviously.

The coach doors were thrown open, and they were blinded by the lights.

There were two costumed, buxom chambermaids waiting to help the gentlemen at the door of the Villa. They blushed prettily crimson at the sight of Sherlock  descending upon them, eyes gleaming, greedy hands outstretched.

"Just the thing to restore me after my dreary travels! They surely know how to feed up the maidens in Switzerland, hey, Polidori!" Sherlock shouted bawdily, leaning over to pretend to admire an exposed nipple. He maneuvered both women, now in a state of charming dishabille, into a convenient nearby closet, winking at John over the girls' shoulders.

The stunned silence of the film crew was eloquent.

John suppressed his laughter, giggles almost: he could see they were filming reaction shots here. And so he firmly bit his lips and pretended to serenely make entries in his diary.

He found that no words making any sense at all in the English language would assemble themselves. If this was what it was going to be like in the first ten minutes, God help him after a full week of this madness. Better yet, he promised himself firmly, God help Sherlock.

Unbidden --and immediately very, very severely suppressed-- was the single clear thought that floated up through his lust-filled head:

He wondered if it would be entirely too obvious if he were to go back to the coach to fetch the riding crop.


	3. Magnetism

The next scene was to be an intimate evening gathering in the Villa Diodati. The director wanted to make up for lost time and so, they went on without pause to the next scene, in the candle-lit salon of Villa Diodati.

Sherlock was there as Byron, as was John as Dr Polidori. The actor playing Shelley was there, engaged for the moment in losing a game chess to Sherlock. Irene Adler made her appearance as Mary Shelley, in a low-cut blue Empire gown and long dark curls. She was making notes in a little red leather diary.

The actress portraying Claire Clairmont, Mary’s half-sister and Byron’s lover/stalker, was there, too. Claire paced provocatively back and forth in front of Sherlock, tossing her blonde curls, bending over to pretend to observe the game while affording Sherlock an expansive view of her overflowing bosom. Her rosy nipples almost emerged from the scandalously low neck of her gown. Claire occasionally found a pretext to fiddle with her shoe, displaying an expanse of shapely leg encased in stockings.

It had been contrived to simulate a violent thunderstorm outside of the Villa, with rain and wind machines lashing raindrops against the windows. Thunder rolled and boomed.

Claire shuddered theatrically. "This horrible storm! I shall have nightmares, I know it, I know I shall! I cannot be left alone tonight," she purred, actually trying to plant herself in Sherlock’s lap. He moved his long leg and she almost tipped to the floor, but gamely recovered herself.

John put in, to Mary Shelley: "I made my dissertation at Edinburgh on nightmares, somnambulism, and mesmerism. It is all a question of the flow of animal magnetism. When it is disturbed, as may happen in a violent thunderstorm, strange mental states may arise. Miss Clairmont is correct. Neither of the ladies should be left alone tonight."

John’s notes said that Doctor Polidori was in love with Mary Shelley, so he hoped that his comment sounded like an invitation to Mary, rather than to Claire.

Mary put aside her writing and asked, "Doctor Polidori, when you say that the disturbance of the flow of – animal magnetism – causes strange states, do you mean the mind alone, or is the body also susceptible?"

John explained that the flow of animal magnetism could be affected by magnets; by a person endowed himself with powerful animal magnetism that he had the power to direct; and by the flow of electrical current such as was generated by galvanic cells.

All of these, he postulated, affected both the mind and the body most powerfully. Sleepwalking and nightmares were just two examples of symptoms of disorders of the body’s magnetic forces, of altered states produced by disturbance in the electrical forces.

"But," he stated firmly, "also, although the magnetism may, if disordered, cause harm to both mind and body, the practitioner of this art may lay hands on the sufferer; and by proper guidance of the animal magnetism, such ailments may be alleviated.

"Mesmer himself held his hands for several hours over the diaphragm of a woman suffering from abdominal pain. She experienced convulsions and mystical visions; but afterward, was completely cured. Mesmer had reversed the obstructed flow of the woman’s magnetic forces."

Mary smiled meaningfully at John. "Doctor, I have had a trying headache, all day. Do you think that you could by any such means relieve it by affecting the flow of my – animal magnetism?"

Here Shelley rose from the chess game, and looked darkly at Polidori/John. But Shelley was a believer in free love, after all; he and Mary had sworn to reject society’s conventions regarding monogamy and to enjoy free, true romantic love, which neither knew nor required restrictions upon the beloved. He himself was currently enjoying the attentions of Mary’s half-sister Claire, and had a legal wife languishing at home.

If Mary desired to amuse herself with Polidori, whom she had lately taken to calling "my brother" in an intimate tone, he would not stoop to stop her. She had her rights as a woman, as he had as a man. In fact, he intended to exercise them with Lord Byron as soon as he found an opportunity, and could get the relentless Claire away somewhere.

Sherlock and Shelley began arguing whether or not this animal magnetism was an independent force, in itself, or was subject to some higher or Divine power.

Claire stamped her foot with frustration. She did not want the intellectual poets to become distracted by talk of science. Nightmares and frights were more exciting. She pulled down a book of ghost stories that Polidori had bought in Geneva. She handed it provocatively to Sherlock, caressing his hand.

"Won’t you read us a ghost story, my Lord?"

The book was Fantasmagoriana, or Collection of the Histories of Apparitions, Spectres, Ghosts, etc. Byron/Sherlock read, with his fine, deep and thrilling voice, the story of a husband, who, kissing his beloved bride on their wedding night, opened his eyes to find she had turned into the corpse of his former lover.

The story had a very chilling effect, and all eyes were on Sherlock, shocked and a little afraid.

He broke the silence by declaiming lines from Coleridge’s "Christabel," which Byron revered and knew by heart.

" _Then drawing in her breath aloud_

_Like one that shuddered, she unbound_

_the cincture from beneath her breast:_

_Her silken robe and inner vest_

_Dropt to her feet, and in full view_

_Behold! Her bosom and half her side,_

_Hideous, deformed and pale of hue,_

_A sight to dream of, not to tell!_

_And she is to sleep by Christabel_."

At this, Sherlock advanced upon Claire and began fondling her breasts openly before the company. She did not resist, but rather, sank against him in pretended a half-faint, clinging to him.

"I cannot exactly play the Stoic with a woman," Sherlock announced, "who has scrambled eight hundred miles to unphilosophise me! I am fain to take a little love - if pressed particularly – (here he gave Claire a vicious squeeze) by way of novelty!"

It appeared that their withdrawal to a private chamber would necessarily be imminent, but Mary sprang from her chair with a bloodcurdling scream. She was pointing, terrified, at the rain-lashed window.

Shelley sprang to her side. "My darling one, whatever is it!"

Mary ran to the window, and they all followed, peering out into the stormy darkness.

"There, do you not see! In the trees! There is something moving, something creeping there!"

John did see something, but he could hardly credit it. It was the figure of a man, possibly; but in the flashes of lightning it looked as though it was completely swaddled in bandages, mummy-like. It was having a great deal of trouble moving about, and it staggered, stumbled and fell, then after another bright flash of lightning, the apparition suddenly vanished from view.

Claire screamed too, and clung about Sherlock’s neck. "Oh, God, what is it, what is it??" She shrieked.

Shelley, instead of comforting Mary, began shrieking too, throwing his hands up to his head and then seizing a candle. He dashed about the room, moaning something about "a woman who had eyes instead of nipples," and pointing fearfully at Mary.

John went to Shelley. His notes said that the doctor had administered "ether" to Shelley to calm his fit, but nothing had been provided so he contented himself with dashing a glass of water in his face. Coughing and sputtering, Shelley composed himself a bit.

Sherlock left the room with Claire, as the script dictated. As they left, Sherlock turned and pronounced:

"We shall all write a ghost story!"


	4. Breathe

"It’s a wrap!" The director finally shouted, and everyone hurried to their rooms to rest for the night.

John and Sherlock tolerated the frustratingly slow process of careful removal of their elaborate costumes and return to their own clothing with poor grace. Sherlock in particular was very fractious; but the wardrobe ladies were so charmed to be able to actually help Sherlock disrobe that they did not mind him in the least. When at last they were finished, Sherlock and John dashed through the halls, laughing, to their own room.

"Quick, close the door, is she trying to follow us?" Sherlock pretended to be actually terrified that the relentless Claire would follow him into their room. Sherlock and John had each been provided a separate room in the villa, but by consensus decided to stay in the larger one assigned to Sherlock, the actual room Byron had slept in that haunted summer of 1816.

John bolted the door.

There were voices in the hall, and some feminine giggling, then a general slamming of doors and the villa grew silent. It was well past midnight.

The darkness and silence brought an abrupt change in Sherlock’s mood. John knew that he seldom slept and he was clearly in no mood for resting. Sherlock lay back luxuriously against the pillows of the bed, still bearing something of the rock-star attitude of Lord Byron, eyes rimmed still with a bit of eyeliner, watching John. John waited.

They stayed that way a long moment, looking into each other’s eyes. John hoped that he never lived to see that look ever disappear. It was like a miracle, every time. Sherlock reached for him and pulled him down into the bed, restlessly kissing John, stroking him. John was more than ready to make up for the interrupted glory of their brief encounter in the coach.

Sherlock was reaching under his shirt now, clasping John to him, hard, and then he was suddenly scratching his back, digging in far too hard with his sharp manicured nails. John gasped and pulled back. There were welts now where Sherlock had actually drawn blood, just a little. John rolled on top of Sherlock, trapping both of his hands and holding him down. This was evidently exactly what Sherlock wanted, for his body became liquidly submissive under his.

Sherlock’s hooded gaze was almost a little frightened, John thought. "What is it, love, tell me what you want," he finally whispered against Sherlock’s parted lips, stroking his hair. "I want, I want . .John . . .I so want you to . . ." Sherlock whispered, inarticulate. His eyes closed now and he shivered voluptuously. He pulled one of his hands free from John’s, and John released it. Sherlock’s hand wandered down to the edge the bedcover. He pulled something from under the mattress and drew it up between their chests. It was a black riding crop; not the old one, this was something new. Sherlock was pressing the handle into John’s hand. He was whispering, and John had to put his ear almost to his lips to hear. "Please, John" It could only be called begging.

John felt his anger rising even as his body was engulfed in an electric charge of lust. He mustn’t —

Sherlock was wearing his Army tags. "Stop it, just stop it," John nearly shouted, covering Sherlock’s mouth with his hand. He shoved the crop aside, and ripped Sherlock’s shirt, buttons scattering. Then John was pulling on the tags, yanking him up a little by the chain. Sherlock did not resist, his impossibly long neck offering itself even as the chain was hurting him, just a little, a red mark on his throat. John just as suddenly released him and they just stared at each other, gasping. John leaned in and kissed Sherlock’s now-passive lips, over and over, licking the beautiful bottom one, the one that took your breath away.

"Do you trust me, Sherlock," he said finally.

"Yes," Sherlock said vehemently.

"I’m going to do something for you now. It’s not what you want, but – I’ll do it, for you. All you have to do is to what I say. Can you do that?"

Sherlock nodded, eyes huge.

"Then lay very still, love. And don’t move."

John carefully and gently removed the rest of Sherlock’s clothes, and his own also. He allowed himself the luxury of just looking at the breathtaking sight, in the moonlight. He lay next to Sherlock on the bed and started stroking his beautiful cock, leisurely, finding and using the lubricant from the bag next to the bed. He wouldn’t let Sherlock reciprocate.

"No, just you. Don’t move unless I tell you." Sherlock nodded, then closed his eyes and surrendered himself to John’s strong hand. When he was shuddering and bucking, trying not to move and about to come, John gently but firmly and carefully pressed Sherlock’s throat, constricting his carotid artery, and very careful not to harm his larynx.

"Now, love, just hold your breath," he ordered. "Don’t move. And don’t breathe until I tell you to.

Sherlock’s face started turning a little red, and a strangled moans were stifled in his throat. John was stroking him very hard now, and inserted a finger, and then two, into hole, thrusting. Sherlock’s cock had never been harder and it was leaking pre-come now, but he didn’t move. John kept careful account of the brief passage of time, just a matter of seconds, really; and as Sherlock was about to explode, he suddenly removed his hands and ordered, "Breathe, now."

Sherlock gasped for air and shouted in mingled ecstacy and frustration, his stiff cock jutting into the air unsatisfied. John waited a moment, kissing him deeply, and said, "Again, love. Don’t move. And don’t breathe until I say." And he did it to Sherlock again, making him wait just a moment longer this time until he was drenched with sweat and shivering as though in a fever. The sensation of watching Sherlock's face was intoxicating.

When at the last moment John again stopped his stroking, telling him to breathe, now, Sherlock groaned, "Please, let me now," but John said, "No love, not yet, you need this, just trust me." John himself was almost paralyzed with desire; but he ignored his own needs and focused only on Sherlock.

Sherlock was very strong; it was almost impossible to reach his limit, sexually, John had discovered. He meant to.

And after the third time he kept on stroking, not letting him breathe, until Sherlock came in a violent explosion that he knew felt like a supernova, and John raised him up, stroking his hair, whispering, breathe, breathe, and he brought himself off with just the merest touch.

They rested against each other, Sherlock’s head against his chest, until their breathing became as one.

* * *

Up on a steep hill looking down upon the Villa Diodati, was the walled and gated estate which had been leased by the producer of the reality show for the duration.

An armed guard emerged from behind the gate and went out into the darkened woods with a flashlight.

After a time, he returned with a second guard.

Between them, they were carrying a figure that seemed to be wrapped in bandages, something like a mummy.

As the electronic gates closed silently behind them, they put the figure in a wheelchair, and a stifled scream rang out that was swiftly silenced.

In the Villa Diodati, Irene sat up, thinking she had heard something like a scream. She got out of bed, pulling a robe around her. She looked out the window into the dark forest and up to the walled villa above for a long time. All was silent. It was very dark. There was nothing there.

"Ghosts and monsters," she chided herself, and went back to sleep.


	5. Draw

The next morning, Sherlock and John were carefully garbed and anointed as Byron and Polidori by the costume, hair and makeup crew. Sherlock's attire was more exotic today; Byron was fond of costumes, and often sat for his portrait in Oriental garments:

  
[**Byron in Albanian Costume** ](http://www.google.com/imgres?q=byron+albanian+costume&um=1&hl=en&sa=N&qscrl=1&nord=1&rlz=1T4ADRA_enUS397US397&biw=1920&bih=731&tbm=isch&tbnid=HCLPTbulnD719M:&imgrefurl=http://www.easyart.com/canvas-prints/Thomas-Phillips/Lord-Byron-in-Albanian-Costume,-c.1835-419265.html&docid=gYt_QpdrRrMuEM&itg=1&imgurl=http://images.easyart.com/highres_images/easyart/4/1/419265.jpg&w=829&h=1000&ei=N5bnTraeGIzZiALF19GfBw&zoom=1&iact=hc&vpx=269&vpy=113&dur=1545&hovh=247&hovw=204&tx=101&ty=137&sig=110106206052601345155&page=1&tbnh=118&tbnw=99&start=0&ndsp=55&ved=1t:429,r:1,s:0)

Sherlock was therefore resplendently attired in a cerulean Turkish silk embroidered robe worn as a sort of coat, with nothing beneath; a wide sash; and a turban to which a jeweled pin in the shape of a curling feather was affixed, the curls of his Byronic wig escaping to just to the shoulder. Tight-fitting trousers were visible beneath the robe, and a smashing pair of high leather boots completed the ensemble.

John was a bit more dandified today in a red high-collared cutaway jacket, a yellow embroidered waistcoat, a gold watch suspended from a watch chain, more ruffled linen, tight black trousers and black leather boots. Sherlock looked like he had escaped from a harem. John looked ready to rip most of his own costume off, and had to be scolded several times for pulling and tugging at his waistcoat, losing a few buttons, leaving his shirt half open and disarranged.

The morning notes said that the party took a picnic down by the shore of Lake Geneva, and off the party went. John walked with Mary Shelley, inquiring about the progress of her new "ghost story" for Lord Byron’s challenge from the previous stormy night.

"I so wish, Doctor Polidori, that you had been there apply your animal magnetism, last night. I was sorely troubled by nightmares. . . I did not sleep. My dreams had a vividness far beyond the usual state of dreams."

"Of what did you dream?"

"I saw a pale student of unhallowed arts, a doctor. He was kneeling beside a – thing — he had somehow put together. It was a hideous – phantasm of a man – and with his powerful engine, the doctor made it stir with life," she said.

"What do you mean, phantasm?" Said Sherlock, stopping to attend their conversation.

"My Lord, I have heard you, Shelley and Doctor Polidori discoursing upon galvanism, and the experiments of Dr. Erasmus Darwin; whether the component parts of a ‘creature’ might not be — assembled, in a fashion, brought together; and animated or endowed with warmth and vitality.

"Such was my dream, and I have started setting it down as you directed last night."

"And you, Doctor Polidori," Sherlock asked archly, slapping rhythmically against the side of his boot with his sword cane, "have you yet had the -- inspiration -- to begin your story?"

John smirked and made a half-bow in Sherlock’s direction. "Indeed yes, my Lord. It is the tale of a dark lord: one Ruthven, who does not sleep, but walks in the night. Lord Ruthven is gloomy, moody and mysterious, but women everywhere fall at his feet. The women who have the fate to be touched by Ruthven, to love him, are drained of their blood."

"And what is the cause?" queried Shelley.

"Ruthven is a vampire," said Sherlock, showing his own teeth, "that is plain enough."

 

* * *

Talk of the ghost stories was suspended while Sherlock attempted to fend off the strenuous and clinging attentions of Claire, while exchanging veiled remarks about free love and the love of nature with Shelley. Shelley was competing with Claire for a position by Sherlock's side as they neared the lake.

When they reached the shore, a lovely clearing above a short stair down to the water, John was left to set up the picnic. Sherlock began reciting from Byron’s newest work, the verses of Canto Three of Childe Harold, which Claire had been given the task of transcribing in fair hand:

_"Thus far have I proceeded in a theme_   
_Renewed with no kind auspices: --to feel_   
_We are not what we have been, and to deem_   
_We are not what we should be, and to steel_   
_The heart against itself; and to conceal,_   
_With a proud caution, love or hate, or aught, -_   
_Passion or feeling, purpose, grief, or zeal, -_   
_Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought,_   
_Is a stern task of soul: --No matter,--it is taught."_

Sherlock was looking away from the party, out over the mist-wreathed lake, and his voice had a thrill that hushed the company. Sherlock then turned, and John thought he met his eye for just a moment with a look of such longing and possibly pain that he wanted to go to him that instant.

But the moment, if it was ever there, was gone in a flash; Sherlock sprang back into his more mischievous character, and flung himself to the ground on the blanket, his robe falling open and his pelvis provocatively thrust forward.

John could see that Shelley was desperate to contrive an excuse to touch him, but with cameras rolling and in Shelley's shy character he was unable to manage it. Sherlock was teasing him outrageously, reaching out to tuck a stray curl behind Shelley's ear, then loudly announcing,

"And how is it, Shelley, that two such as we, who should be freely roaming the wilds and tasting the fruits of nature, find ourselves tied to the apron-strings of the womenfolk? I cannot account for it. This brat," here he nudged Claire with his booted toe, "has chased me down like a hound after a fox – from Dover itself -- I'll be damned if I ever asked her to. In the event, she seems quite as happy to warm your bed as mine, and you're welcome to her, indeed you are, Shiloh; and the scribbler, too," here Sherlock pointed his sword cane at Mary.

"But we should flee this company, you and I; we poets are meant for a finer love than that of women, don't you agree?"

Here Sherlock was stretching out his hand to Shelley, as though beckoning him to run away that very moment.

"Indeed, Byron, I sleep with angels. But, these ladies might better employ their talents elsewhere," Shelley agreed. Shelley looked transfixed with excitement and stretched his own somewhat dainty gloved hand toward's Sherlock's hand.

Before they could touch, John sprang up. His notes said that on this date, a quarrel arose in which Polidori challenged Shelley to a duel.

"Sir, your words are most improper against the honour of Mrs. Shelley – and Miss Clairmont," he said. "I demand you withdraw them and make your apologies at once, or I demand satisfaction."

Here John touched the hilt of his sword.

Shelley blanched and cowered at Sherlock’s side. It was well known that Shelley was neurotic and a coward, and slept with two pistols under his pillow for fear of being abducted.

Sherlock stood up, and with fire in his eye, said, "Recollect that although Shelley here has scruples about duelling, I have none. I stand at all times ready to take his place, Polidori."

John’s notes said that at this point, he should make a shameful withdrawal back to the Villa.

Fuck that, he thought.

"Draw," he growled, and suddenly drew his own sword with a metallic hiss, and assumed en garde stance.

* * *

Sherlock’s eyes widened with surprise. It was abundantly clear that John knew exactly what he was doing. Another secret, then. Like the night John shot the cabbie, another layer of mystery to John.

Who had, in point of fact, been a champion fencer for the Army.

* * * 

John saluted with a brief vertical salute of his sword. Sherlock drew his sword from his cane and cast it aside, assumed en garde, and lunged.

John was prepared for Sherlock’s superior reach, both legs and arms much longer than his own. There were compensations to be made. They fenced furiously. But soon, without much effort, John was driving Sherlock back, step by step, easily maneuvering inside Sherlock’s reach and forcing him to fight in close.

Mary, Claire and Shelley were standing wide-eyed, the women clutching each other’s arms, shrieking and thrilled with fear.

Finally, John had Sherlock back against the low wall above the steps to the lake. He relentlessly pursued his advantage until Sherlock stumbled on the edge of the step and fell to the ground, losing his sword.

John planted his boot on Sherlock’s chest, and held the tip of his sword at Sherlock’s throat, exposed where the Turkish robe had fallen open.

They were both panting, breathless.

Sherlock’s eyes shone.

"Sir, apologize to these ladies, both for your own words and those of Shelley here, since you stand in his stead," John demanded, not releasing Sherlock, and pressing a bit harder with his boot.

Sherlock gasped, "Ladies, pray forgive my idle tongue. It would be far better employed –"

Here John pressed the tip of the sword against his throat in warning.

"--- in composing verses upon your virtues. Please accept a most humble apology from one --- who deserves no forgiveness."

John made to remove his boot and sword, but Sherlock reached up and caressed the black leather, holding John’s foot there firmly with one hand while he grabbed the naked blade with his other.

Before John could stop him, he had drawn the edge of the blade against the palm of his hand. The blood began to flow, staining his robe. John momentarily ground the heel of his boot even harder into Sherlock’s chest and their eyes locked in a contest of wills, until Sherlock released it with a look of such voluptuousness that John was sorely pressed not to assault him then and there on the ground.

Seeing Sherlock’s bleeding wound, the director called a halt, and the cut was attended to by a member of the crew responsible for first aid. John refused to help, or even to touch Sherlock at all, and was striding back toward the Villa, alone.

* * *

The next amusement was a trip up the hill to the neighboring villa, Maison Riveaux, where the Marquis de Roel kept a famous collection of automatons.

These mechanized figures were reputed to be able to dance, sing, and perform other wonders. Thus the party made the hike up the steep hill to the walled and gated villa in the fading afternoon light. The cameras were turned off as they approached the gates, which were highly reinforced and secure, too modern to film. Inside, however, all was preserved as beautifully as the Villa Diodati itself, a classical villa in the 18th century style, stucco a pale salmon-pink, with an alle of cypresses leading to the door.

The Marquis de Roel was indisposed, the party was informed by a valet dressed in sombre black and white livery.

"But the Marquis particularly desires that you should stay for refreshment, and see his collection of automatons; they are reputed to be the finest, the rarest in the world."

The party eagerly agreed, and were led through an enfillade of rooms to a salon, heavilly draped with tapestries and velvet, and brilliantly lit with candelabra. There were numerous automatons here, dressed in costumes of gypsies, of fairy-tale princesses, as well as modern Regency attire.

Mary was fascinated by an automaton fashioned of wood and gilded metal, seated at a table, wearing a frock coat, whose mechanical hands could write out a short poem in dainty handwriting. Claire wanted to sit on the lap of a mechanical Oriental lady, who could perform a few lewd maneuvers of belly-dancing.

But Sherlock looked the longest upon the mechanical executioner in a fearsome black leather mask, who held a sword over the neck of a mechanical man kneeling at the block.

When the correct lever was pulled, the executioner’s mechanical arm bore down relentlessly, and the doomed man’s head was severed and rolled into a waiting basket. Some red substance, meant to be blood, flowed from the severed neck. John observed to Sherlock that the automaton was not anatomically correct, in that it did not spray as arterial blood would; but otherwise, he appreciated the wonder of the smooth operation of the mechanism.

Sherlock stepped forward and turned over the severed head, ignoring the protests of the Marquis’ valet that the automatons must not be touched.

The severed head revealed the face of Sherlock himself.

* * *

In a nearby hidden room, an Armani-clad man, silver-haired and deeply tanned, was watching the scene unfold on a high-definition screen via concealed webcam. He drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair. His face was impassive as Sherlock turned over the twin face of the severed head.

He then saw John grab it and hurl it against the wall.

At this, the corner of his mouth turned up a fraction.

He turned restlessly to a stack of glossy photographs spread before him on his desk. He found the one he wanted and picked it up, touching it with just his fingertip.

It was a closeup of Sherlock’s bloodied lips from the fencing studio.


	6. Centimetres

 

Sherlock laughed at the broken doll’s head. His doppelganger.

"Clever! Perhaps the eyes are not quite right." He went to the valet and handed him the broken pieces; the man was apoplectic at the John's destruction of the mannequin's Sherlock-head.

"We will see your master now, I think." And the doors to the salon flew open.

"The Marquis de Roel," announced the valet.

A tall, tanned gentleman entered. He was attired in impeccable and extravagant 18th century costume, black and silver; a long silvery white curled wig; powdered and patched. He carried an ebony cane tipped with silver. The man advanced upon the party, eyes only for Sherlock.

Sherlock very insolently paused before making him a stiff and low bow, but refusing to lower his eyes; the Marquis was the highest ranking among them, higher than a Baron.

"Lord Byron, please forgive the imprudence of a sincere admirer. Your friend, Doctor Polidori, I perceive, is offended at my little joke. We revere your poetry here at Maison Riveaux, sir. We are fortunate to have a copy of your Albanian portrait, from which I was able to have this simple toy modeled," He drew aside a curtain and here indeed was a huge oil painting of Lord Byron, wearing an Albanian costume (hence his nickname, "Albe"). The painting was actually rather new-looking, Sherlock thought, although it was a very competent copy. It, too, however, bore an identical likeness to Sherlock.

"I would rather have modeled the writer, there," Sherlock pointed to the automation bent over his sheet of poetry. "But no, sir; upon my word I believe you are quite right, after all. I have been tiresome to the world, of late; a proper exile, indeed. No-one cares for my verses, perhaps; the critics would pay more, I'll warrant, to see my head struck off for my sins; than for the next Canto of my Childe Harold." He smiled at the Marquis, a sinister smile it was. Which the Marquis did not return. He was caressing his ebony cane and inspecting Sherlock as though he were for sale.

"I hope the executioner here will not attempt to strike me in the flesh," Sherlock continued meaningfully. "Although the valiant Doctor has had the better of me, this very day," Sherlock now turned and bowed low to John, quite respectful and proper; "believe me when I say that no other sword than his will be permitted to mark my person. I pray you may accept this little scruple of mine in the spirit in which it is meant, sir. As we understood you to be – indisposed, we bid you good day."

Sherlock held his hand out to the Marquis, who stretched out his own hand, at first to stay them, but seeing Sherlock’s determination to withdraw, to shake Sherlock’s in farewell. The Marquis’ frosty blue eyes lit with fury when Sherlock's long fingers deliberately crushed his, cruelly, in their grasp.

* * *

The party returned to Villa Diodati. Everyone asked Sherlock about the mysterious Marquis de Roel, how he knew the man, but he shook his head and would not answer more than, "You are mistaken, I do not know him. But – I know his voice." He refused to elaborate, and everyone retired to their rooms for the night.

John did not follow Sherlock to his room, but turned at the top of the stair and went for the first time to his own assigned room, and closed the door. After a moment of hesitation, he bolted the lock.

After pacing a bit, he finally flung himself on the bed, looking out the window over the lake. Sherlock’s bleeding hand was all that he could see, or think of. But was that really true? If he was honest with himself, didn’t he have darker visions, other desires? He pounded his fists into the mattress to banish them, then noticed that his own hand was spotted with a little of Sherlock’s blood.

"No," he said to himself.

***

Of course John was still wide awake, tossing, when after a few hours, a key turned in the lock. His hand went to his gun, hidden under the mattress. Sherlock was entering on silent feet.

He had somehow contrived to hold back the Turkish robe and was wearing that, and nothing else. He looked somehow geisha-like, feminine and yet not. He crept silently to the side of the bed where John was sitting up, and looked into John’s face. It was full of rage. He dropped to his knees before John.

This infuriated John further, and he pulled the robe down from Sherlock’s shoulders, shaking him a little. "No, Sherlock," he said, his voice shaking. Sherlock refused to pull back. And he smiled wickedly at John. "I know you like it. Like me. Like this?" He put his bandaged hand between John’s legs, boldly stroking him. He didn’t need to. John was already there, all the way there.

John tore the hand away roughly, holding up the bandage to Sherlock’s face. The bandage was leaking blood even now. "Is this it, Sherlock, is this what you want? You want me to cut you, to hurt you?" His anger was towering now and he was afraid he might ---

Sherlock pulled John’s resisting hand down between his own legs, to feel his own hardness now. In the moonlight the bandage glowed white; the bloody stains, black. They struggled as Sherlock tried to force John to stroke him, "John, John, I know you want to, don’t try to hide from me, I know you," his whisper insanely seductive, wicked.

"God," John exploded, "As if – as if I can ever –"

"– Ever stop thinking about it," Sherlock whispered as he assaulted John’s mouth with his tongue. And suddenly John had him down on the floor, the robe now torn and ruined, just his mouth and tongue against Sherlock’s own unresisting mouth.

John slowly removed the sash of the robe and tied Sherlock’s hands very securely to the bed post, first kissing the bloody palm then returning his bloodied lips hungrily to Sherlock’s own. Whose head was thrown back in anticipation, eyes closed . John began stroking him fast and rough, until Sherlock said, "John, wait, wait, not yet –" but it was too much, he was on the very edge.

Except that John stopped, and stood back, even as Sherlock strained up to try and capture his lips with his own. Now it was Sherlock’s eyes that darkened, a little angry.

"No," John said. "No, Sherlock."

He waited a long minute while Sherlock processed this, panting, writhing. Finally he was calmer, looking up at John with fascination. And John sat beside him on the bed, caressing him everywhere except his cock. He took his time, until Sherlock was desperate for it, then he roughly started to bring him off again. And stopped, this time walking away from the bed and pressing his forehead against the cold glass of the window. And tried to ignore Sherlock whispering, begging a little now, "John, don’t, John." He could hear in Sherlock’s voice that he thought it was a game. Still.

He had a lot to learn.

He knelt over Sherlock, stroking his hair, putting his fingers between his lips and letting him suck.

"How do you think he felt, today?" John asked, voice even as he felt the electric thrill just from Sherlock’s tongue against his fingertips. The sensation went straight to his cock. "You know what I mean. Shelley. You were teasing him."

Sherlock’s chin jutted up just a little. As if he were proud of himself.

"He was gagging for it, you know it, don’t you." John was stroking Sherlock’s cock a little now, just lightly, and watched him bite his lips. If he begged, he knew John would stop. "Didn’t you think I could see that? Did you think for a minute I would let him lay a finger on you? Did you?" Sherlock’s eyes opened, and John could see his brain working light-speed, trying to decide if John was serious or if this was part of the game. And John could see that Sherlock really couldn’t tell.

This was good.

"Because I thought we understood each other. You’re mine."

Sherlock was thrusting into his hand now, and he was so beautiful, so debauched in his longing that John almost relented. But he stopped. Sherlock’s cock was straining now, swollen. John contented himself with gently caressing his balls now, ever so softly, while Sherlock sighed and moaned, whispering little urges for him let please let him come, now.

But John wouldn’t. He turned him over on his side, and released one of Sherlock’s hands from the restraint. "So you can hold yourself steady, love. But don’t touch yourself, or I’ll stop again. Do you understand." Sherlock shuddered and nodded, holding himself against the edge of the mattress as John slicked himself and slowly nudged against his rim. Sherlock tried to melt back against him, to embrace his cock but John drew back, teasing. Over and over he pressed his entrance, just barely about to breach it and enter him, and always withdrawing. He kept a firm grip on Sherlock’s hips so that he could not try and control the rhythm. It almost drove him mad to deny himself.

After some time of this relentless teasing Sherlock was almost delirious, sweat drenching his skin, his body becoming one plea for release. Finally John was at his own limit and whispered, "I’m going to come in you now. But if you start to come with me inside you, I will stop and it will be over. Don’t move." Sherlock nodded, his hair damply clinging to his neck. He grabbed a handful of sheet with his free hand, and John slowly pressed in deep. Sherlock shivered and his swollen cock leaped, leaking beads at the tip.

John paused there, poised on his own brink and holding Sherlock steady. There was a roaring in his ears and he could not even hear their mingled panting, as though they had run a marathon. He could feel Sherlock’s quivering desire to thrust back and the effort it was costing him to lay still for John. He kissed the back of Sherlock’s slicked neck. "That’s very good, love," he soothed him, as he rocked steady now, and a violent cascade of orgasm shook him, blinded him, and spilled hot.

Sherlock was shaking like a leaf as he felt John shrink inside him while he remained unsatisfied; but he did not move. John could see that he was biting his lips, hard. John reached around and just touched the tip of his head with his finger, rubbing the slit delicately, making Sherlock groan with desperation. And just like that, John was hard again, and he started thrusting into Sherlock again, slow and hard; but this time, letting him have a little friction from his hands also, bringing Sherlock to the brink twice more before he whispered against his ear, "Come for me, now," twisting hard with his hand, which felt Sherlock’s release, covering his hand with come in wave after wave, and John covered his mouth to muffle his scream.

When it was over he kissed Sherlock gently, over and over, and licked and sucked his cock to comfort it after the torture of denial, letting Sherlock come again down his throat until he too was exhausted, and they fell back against the sheets, arms and legs entangled.

"Yours," Sherlock whispered drowsily. "Mine," John agreed.

* * *

De Roel entered the darkened room where the bandaged figure was kept. He gestured to the nurse and she obediently began unwrapping the extensive bandages, and loosened the supporting braces on the arms and legs. It was a fully equipped hospital suite, and there was an IV drip attached to one of the figure’s arms. It held a little button attached to the IV unit between its bandaged fingers.

"How much today?"

"Two centimetres," the nurse said, consulting her chart.

"Leave us," de Roel said. The door closed behind her.

The figure's eyes grew wide through its facial bandages as he heard de Roel’s voice.

"Now, Eric, I've been informed of your little escapade of last night. You didn't think I would not know, did you?"

Eric hung his head, and a few tears dropped onto the sheets.

"I am very shocked. You have never, ever disobeyed me before. The doctor tells me that you have been consuming an unhealthy amount of the painkillers, and that you may have been hallucinating. If so, tell me now."

Eric mumbled through his bandages.

"No, don't strain your voice. The vocal cords are not healed. Use your keyboard."

Eric pecked a few words on a little bluetooth keyboard. De Roel read from his mobile.

"Very well. I am not an unreasonable man, I hope. And I have come to far to stop now, not this time. And I have a solution to both of our problems.

"You will skip the next dose of pain medication. You will not get any more, until I permit it."

Eric nodded submissively.

"And, I myself will make the next adjustment. I think we need to be more -- aggressive."

Eric's hands would have gripped the bars of the bed if he had been able, but each finger was splinted. He merely shrank back against the pillows, bracing himself.

De Roel removed the IV drip that supplied Eric's pain meds on demand. He gently removed the pain pump from his useless fingers.

De Roel pulled aside the bandages and examined Eric’s exposed upper thigh.

There was a long, thin open wound here, with a metal device separating the precisely severed edges of surgically broken femur. There was a small silver screw here, which, when turned, widened the gap between the severed bones, permitting new growth to occur.

Prudent surgical practice for cosmetic bone lengthening was for no more than 1 millimeter per day.

De Roel turned the screw, and Eric screamed.


	7. Slaves

The next morning’s scene was the famous boat trip of Shelley and Byron on Lake Geneva. The film makers did not intend to consume more than one day for filming what had been a trip of a week, and would be returning at day’s end.

John, Mary and Claire saw them off, Claire making a last attempt to leap into the departing craft before falling into the lake, soaking herself and her dress to the bone. She called after Sherlock: "Byron, do not forget me!"

John assisted both men aboard the little sailboat, and gave Shelley’s arm a hard warning twist to remind him not to try any tricks with Sherlock while they were alone on the water.

* * *

John escorted the ladies back to Villa Diodati. Upon their arrival they found Byron’s friend, "Monk" Lewis – infamous author of the gothic tale 'The Monk' – awaiting them in the salon with the stated intention of awaiting Byron and Shelley’s return.

John’s notes said they spent the morning in literary pursuits. He brought out his copy of ‘The Vampyre.’ Mary apologized to John: "I am afraid that Lord Byron and Shelley were unkind in their estimation of your vampire story. I myself thought that it was very thrilling; I wonder if you have made any additions to it?"

John agreed to read from ‘The Vampyre:’

". . . .[Aubrey] occupied himself in arranging those effects he had with him belonging to Lord Ruthven. Amongst other things there was a case containing several weapons of offence, more or less adapted to ensure the death of the victim. There were several daggers . . . he found the weapon, and his horror may be imagined when he discovered that it fitted, though peculiarly shaped, the sheath he held in his hand.

"His eyes seemed to need no further certainty—they seemed gazing to be bound to the dagger; yet still he wished to disbelieve; but the particular form, the same varying tints upon the haft and sheath were alike in splendour on both, and left no room for doubt; there were also drops of blood on each."

John crumpled the paper, dismayed at the reference to blood-stained knives.

Mrs. Shelley was approving, and urged him to finish the tale. She smoothed out the crumpled paper and returned it to John. Mary then agreed, with some hesitation, to read from her newest work in ‘Frankenstein,’ written last night. It was her description of the meeting of Doctor Frankenstein and his undead creation:

_"‘Devil,’ I exclaimed, ‘do you dare approach me? ...’_

_"‘I expected this reception,’ said the daemon. ‘All men hate the wretched; how, then, must I be hated, who am miserable beyond all living things! Yet you, my creator, detest and spurn me, thy creature, to whom thou art bound by ties only dissoluble by the annihilation of one of us. You purpose to kill me. How dare you sport thus with life? Do your duty towards me, and I will do mine towards you and the rest of mankind. If you will comply with my conditions, I will leave them and you at peace; but if you refuse, I will glut the maw of death, until it be satiated with the blood of your remaining friends.’_

_"‘Abhorred monster! Fiend that thou art! . . .You reproach me with your creation, come on, then, that I may extinguish the spark which I so negligently bestowed.’ . . ._

_"‘. . . .Remember that I am thy creature; I ought to be thy Adam, but I am rather the fallen angel, whom thou drivest from joy for no misdeed. Everywhere I see bliss, from which I alone am irrevocably excluded. I was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend. Make me happy, and I shall again be virtuous.’"_

"Monk" Lewis was deeply moved by this passage.

"I know if I were happy, I should be virtuous," he sighed. Claire laughed aloud at this, for his reputation as a decadent rake was well known to her.

Lewis then remarked that there was some brotherhood between Mary’s Creature, the "fallen angel," and the demon of his own poem 'The Isle of Devils.' This unpublished poem was set out in his Journal, an account of his travels in the West Indies. It described Lewis’s experiences as the owner of extensive sugar plantations in Jamaica where he owned over 700 slaves.

Mary challenged Lewis as to the state of his conscience in purporting to actually own another human being; she gently reminded him of the work of her mother, Mary Wollstonecraft, author of ‘The Vindication of the Rights of Women,’ in which she proclaimed that although men and women were not perhaps physical equals, they were equal before the eyes of God.

"Surely also the same for all humans, then? One man cannot truly own another. It is morally wrong."

John paced uncomfortably.

Lewis evidenced some consciousness of the moral wrong of his position, and described some improvements he had made to his plantation to better the lives of his slaves. "It is a deplorable system," he argued, "but having adopted it, we would do more harm in abolishing the slaves than by keeping them and caring for them -- as a father for his children." Mary was unmoved.

"In fact, ‘Isle of Devils’ is an allegorical poem upon the subject," Lewis continued. "As we are telling ghost stories here, I will not fear to terrify the ladies."

The women begged for him to read from it, and Lewis was easily induced to recite from ‘The Isle of Devils,’ the poem of a shipwrecked virgin, Irza, who was loved against her will by the island’s magical ruler, a huge demon, black and monstrous:

_"On her he gazed — and floods of sable fires,_

_Rolled his huge eyes, and spoke his fierce desires ;_

_As on his club (a tom-up limb) he leaned._

_" Help Heaven ! " (thought Irza), " 'tis the master Fiend ! "_

_Not long he paused - he now with one quick bound,_

_Sprang from the cliff and lighted on the ground._

_Back flew the maid in terror, but her fear Was needless ;_

_humbly, slowly, crept he near. Then kissed the ground - his club before her laid._

_And of his neck a footstool would have made._

_But from his touch she shrunk, he raised his head._

_And saw her limbs convulsed - her face all dread ;_

_And felt the cause his presence : sad and slow,_

_He rose, resumed his club, and turned to go."_

Mary asked what Irza’s fate was.

"I am sure that is too shocking for you and Miss Clairmont," Lewis said.

John said, "If so, then please leave it. Mr. Shelley and Lord Byron have left these ladies in my care today – and I must protest against them being exposed to anything scandalous or improper."

Mary was indignant. "Shelley has not presumed to shelter my mind -- yet. I am my own judge of what is proper and good for me to hear."

Lewis smiled and bowed. "I cannot argue with your good sense and strong will. Never could resist a fierce woman. The lady Izra is ravished against her will by the devil, twice — and kept a prisoner to his desires on the desolate island. She bears the demon two children: one in his likeness, a little demon; one in hers, like an angel. When a ship at last comes to rescue Izra, the demon first destroys both of their children; and then, himself."

Mary, whose recent death of her premature daughter by Shelley was her cross to bear (although they had thereafter been blessed with a son William, now just five months old), turned away abruptly and fled the room, unsuccessfully trying to suppress her sudden burst of tears. Claire followed her with bad grace, clearly irritated at having to leave the interesting attentions of the gentlemen.

Lewis was unperturbed and began puffing at a pipe. "Women – changeable as the winds. Never can tell what will sent ‘em off."

John asked him what he meaning of his poem was.

"It is an allegory, sir. The death of the demon is meant to teach that the master cannot survive, the master is powerless, without the slave."

* * *

During a break for the crew, John went back to his room, with the half-formed plan of trying to see Sherlock’s boat from the upper floor windows. As he looked out the window, where he could see Sherlock and Shelley’s tiny boat and the much larger boat of the film crew, he noticed a folded piece of paper on the bed.

"John. About de Roel. I do not want to expose Do not interfere. I will take care of him. S."

"Fuck!" John yelled, immediately going for his gun. Which was, of course, gone. John threw the bedside lamp against the wall in fury.

He had asked Sherlock early that morning, before the sunrise, what de Roel’s strange collection – the painting, the automaton – of imitation Sherlocks meant. Sherlock was silent for a long minute, and then said, "It has to do with a case. It was several years ago. We solved it, and the murderer was caught. . . . and imprisoned."

He would say nothing more, but John could sense Sherlock’s mind was working on it. Although they were together in the bed, he was very far away.

Finally John kissed him and left him to his private thoughts. Without ever really examining why, from almost the first moment he knew Sherlock, he had never wanted to take anything from Sherlock that he did not freely give. As Sherlock’s inwardness, his obscure and arcane thought processes were almost unbreachable, John found that he instinctively refrained from pressing, getting the greater pleasure when Sherlock had begun almost immediately favoring him with insights, even seeking his opinion (though usually dismissing it).

This was an occasion where it had been a mistake.

He knew nothing at all about this de Roel; Sherlock did; and the man was clearly obsessed with him.

And Sherlock had his gun, which meant that he knew de Roel was dangerous.

He stopped himself from simply charging up the hill to de Roel’s villa, armed only with his sword.

He needed a plan.

After a while, he realized there was really only one option.

He called Mycroft.

* * *

"De Roel? Producer of this – ‘reality show?’ How did we not know that?"

John heard him whispering something to Anthea, and thought he could hear her clacketing away on her Blackberry.

"Sherlock and Lestrade caught an associate of de Roel’s two years ago, for murder. There were strong suspicions that de Roel was the mastermind, but there was no evidence whatsoever. The murderer committed suicide in prison awaiting trial."

"Convenient."

"Very."

"What kind of murders?"

"The gruesome kind. There were some young men, and women, killed at private clubs."

"What kind of ‘clubs’?"

"The very private kind. Catering to very private tastes. Having to do with dominance. And submission. Need I say more?"

John was silent, trying to decide if anything in Mycroft’s tone was meant to imply anything personal. He decided it was. Then he decided he didn’t give a shit.

"All right. Then I need you to know what’s going on." He told Mycroft about de Roel, the Sherlock-headed automaton, the painting with Sherlock’s face. And that Sherlock said he didn’t know de Roel, but knew his voice. And about the note.

"And he didn’t tell you anything else?"

"No. But you’re going to."

"Hmm.... I suppose I am. Sherlock caught the murderer himself."

"How?"

"He went undercover. De Roel tried to buy him."

"What the fuck are you on about, ‘buy' him? 'Buy' Sherlock?’"

"Private slave market. Members only. The victims were sold at this market."

John’s blood was boiling and he almost dropped the mobile from the rage that shook his hand.

"This. Is. Not. Going. Down," he said. "Sherlock is going after this freak – with my gun. I need some backup, now. I am taking de Roel out. He has an obsession with Sherlock — and Sherlock’s trying to take him on alone. I don’t want any mistakes."

"I can have an agent to you in — half an hour. Don’t try to go alone yourself, you’ll make things worse. Can you wait half an hour?"

John went to the window. The light was fading now, but he thought he could see the little boat almost disappearing far down the lake.

"No. I’m going after Sherlock. I’m getting a boat. I’ll leave my mobile on.

"Hurry," he said, and hung up.

* * *

Lake Geneva is almost an inland sea. It is large enough that there are yachting and catamaran races held upon it. There was a small marina very near the Villa Riveaux. John had no vehicle; he ran all the way. He decided going to the villa was not on; he didn’t know if de Roel was actually there, whereas he knew where Sherlock was – if he could just get to him before he did anything stupid.

When he arrived at the marina, he saw a small, sleek looking motorboat and realized he had no idea how to hot-wire a boat. He then burst breathlessly into the office, and a dignified old Swiss gentleman looked up from his newspaper, raising his eyebrows at John’s obvious state of panic. All of the signs were in French, which John didn’t speak. But the gentleman asked, courteously, in English: "How can I help?"

John explained that he wanted to hire the boat, for just one hour. "But they are hired by the day, Monsieur." John was ready to rip the man’s head off, but realized that the Swiss police might object to that. Then threw down his credit card with a wing and a prayer and said, "Fine, all right, then, for the day -- give me the keys NOW."

"But of course, Monsieur," the man said phlegmatically, and with tortoise-like deliberation fumbled for the keys in a drawer. John snatched them and virtually flew into the boat and was about to pull out, when a man on motorcycle roared up.

It was a tall, dark, hard-looking man in mirrored aviator shades. Mycroft’s agent. John didn’t bother to ask how he got here so quickly.

"I have this boat. Let’s go," John said. The agent nodded and they climbed in. He didn’t try to interfere when John struggled a little with firing up the boat, but it was pretty straightforward and soon he was gunning it as hard as it would go, shooting a large wake behind.

"All I want to do is catch him before he gets off the boat and tries to go to de Roel. Then we can all decide what to do about the bastard. I assume Mycroft told you what this is all about." The agent nodded, grimly.

"Do you have a name?"

The man grimaced. "You can call me 009."


	8. Connoisseur

Sherlock was dead tired of the boat and of Shelly's prattle by the time the sun was setting. Shelley had been watching him all day like a rabbit watches a cobra. Fascinated, but fearful. He kept trying to feed Sherlock sandwiches and soup and bottles of cold beer from a picnic basket, but Sherlock was not interested in eating, especially on the boat.

They both played their parts, quoting from Rousseau and Wordsworth, pointing out various classic sights along the lake. Both men had stripped their coats and waistcoats off and were down to thin ruffled linen shirts and slim trousers and boots, and the wind had whipped their hair into a mess of tangles.

Sherlock quoted the last verse of Byron’s newest, the The Prisoner of Chillon, inspired by the poets’ visit to the grim dungeon of the Chateau de Chillon:

_"We were all inmates of one place,_

_And I, the monarch of each race,_

_Had power to kill—yet, strange to tell!_

_In quiet we had learn’d to dwell—_

_My very chains and I grew friends,_

_So much long communion tends_

_To make us what we are: and even I_

_Regain’d my freedom with a sigh."_

* * *

There were several moments when Sherlock, with his exquisitely tuned senses, was certain Shelley was on the brink of embracing him, possibly kissing him, but he stood up and fiddled with the sailing gear every time, suppressing a cruel grin. This was becoming ridiculous.

He wondered what John would do if he saw Shelley's antics, and shivered pleasurably. He thought maybe he would tell John, just to experience it.

He knew in an abstract and very impersonal sort of way that doing things to push John's buttons, to make John jealous -- to possibly hurt John -- was wrong. Very wrong, probably. He remembered his promise to himself to be gentler with John's feelings, after the last case, after Sherlock's overdose. And he had tried, he had really tried. At least he thought he had. Hadn't he? John did not seem to notice, or care, or expect it, anyway.

But now he had found that John's seemingly endless layers wrapped the most fascinating, most alluring mystery yet; one that Sherlock found himself obsessively turning over in his mind, more brilliant and intoxicating than a serial murder. Though John was fighting him every step of the way -- pushing back in his unique way, warm and gentle and all the same, hard and unrelenting – when Sherlock pushed --- Sherlock was supremely confident he would get what he wanted.

John always gave him what he wanted. In the end. And why should he not, since John wanted what Sherlock wanted -- he just didn't always know it.

Or, maybe . . . he did.

This was one of the fascinating questions that Sherlock could not answer, and he needed to know the answer. Of course John would say, if you want to know something, just ask me. Sherlock smirked. What would be the fun in that?

With these tantalizing musings to occupy his hyperactive brain, he barely noticed that the day was finally done.

* * *

The sun was nearly gone. The crew's boat pulled up alongside and called out for them to climb aboard and someone else would take the little sailboat back. Shelley called back,

"No, I have a car waiting at the marina there --" he pointed to a nearby marina and dock with some yachts moored there and several sleek cars parked. "I think we'll drive back, thanks anyway. I'll just tie up the boat there for you," Shelley said. "Good plan?" he asked Sherlock carelessly.

Sherlock distractedly nodded his assent, mind otherwise occupied. He was thoroughly tired of boats, feeling just a little seasick if he was truthful, and was relieved that they would soon be driving, back to the Villa, back to John.

The crew called out that they would return for the boat in the morning, and waved. Shelley waved cheerfully back. As the crew's boat departed, Shelley was competently tying the little sailboat up to the marina and otherwise securing the boat. "Just fetch the basket, would you," Shelley asked.

As Sherlock turned, he felt a sharp prick in the back of his neck. The last thing Sherlock heard before he sank into Shelley's waiting embrace was the sound of an approaching motorboat, coming loud and fast.

* * *

John and 009 sped past the departing crew and then John could finally see Sherlock -- or rather, see Shelley embracing Sherlock. Before he could become enraged by that sight, he was able to observe that Sherlock was slumped over. He started screaming Sherlock's name, but the wind and the motor drowned it out.

A silver Mercedes pulled up alongside the dock now. A man got out swiftly and helped throw the passive Sherlock into the back of the car. 009 was shooting, but the boat was lurching violently as John tried to bring it alongside the dock and jump out after Sherlock, simultaneously.

Under 009's gunfire, John leaped from the boat to the dock, wrenching his leg and almost knocking his teeth out as his chin struck the dock. John scrambled up and started sprinting flat out after the Mercedes, but was able only to pound on the trunk, then scratch it with the tips of his fingernails as it sped away.

Now 009 was shooting at the car's tires and it was weaving, screeching and returning fire. John flung himself on the ground as bullets whizzed and struck gravel near his head. A few rocks cut his exposed ears.

The motorboat crashed into the little sailboat, completely demolishing it.

009 leaped from the boat, scanned the parked cars and with a brief expression of satisfaction picked a Porsche 911 GT2 RS, the fastest road-going car built by Porsche. 620 horsepower and top speed of 330 km/h; 0 - 100 km/h in 3.4 seconds. With a little electronic device, 009 opened the combination keypad on the door and fired up the engine with a rumbling roar that was louder even than the motorboat.

"John," he shouted, and pulled up alongside where John was trying to stanch the flow of blood from his chin, panting. John jumped into the car, a cockpit really -- the car looked like a jet inside. 009 floored it and it felt like g-force pushed them back against the seats.

009 was handing John a gun and a little pouch. Inside the pouch was an extra bullet clip and a tiny, very short length of clear thin plastic tubing containing a pill. John checked the gun and put the clip in his pocket. "What's this?" indicating the pill.

"Poison," 009 shouted over the tremendous roar of the engine. "Fast acting. You don't want to know what de Roel did to his victims. Put it in your upper gum. If he takes you, you can bite down hard and swallow it."

John nodded and inserted the tiny tube into the side of his cheek next to his upper gum.

They were swerving through torturous narrow roads up the mountains now. Through the tinted windows John could see Lake Geneva far below. It was very nearly dark now. With the freakish speed of the Porsche, they caught the Mercedes -- but a moment too late as the gates of a modern, fortress-like industrial building closed behind it. 009 sped past the gates and turned up a small private road about half a kilometer past the facility.

John went to leave the car and go back on foot, but 009 stopped him. "We go together. Wait."

009 was working calmly but speedily on his mobile. After a moment, he said,

"It is . . . a private clinic. Very new. De Roel funded it. At this very moment, twenty of the world's most prominent plastic and reconstructive surgeons are there. We think . . .de Roel is there, too."

John felt as though someone had suddenly thrown him into a pool of ice water. "What --" was all his mind could formulate.

009's stony face actually seemed to form an expression like pity for a moment, but John could have been wrong.

"From the backgrounds of the surgeons -- most of whom are superstars of their field ---there is only one procedure they can be performing here today . . . " he said, reading from his mobile.

John wanted to kill something. He waited, hand gripping the door of the car, coiled to go.

"Full facial transplant," 009 said neutrally, snapping a magazine into his gun and finally removing his sunglasses. His eyes were dark brown and emotionless. "Let's go."

* * *

009 received a download to his mobile of a set of plans to the new clinic and satellite photos in real time of the grounds. There was a private suite of rooms that appeared to be set aside for de Roel’s own use when in residence. There were quarters for the doctors, nurses and other attendants. Kitchen and staff dining room. A separate bunker for security staff. There was a great deal of state of the art security; alarms, dogs, cameras, guards. And fully equipped hospital facilities, a helipad, and garage.

The satellite photos showed that the silver Mercedes had pulled along the rear of the facility. From there, doors led to de Roel’s private quarters and to the hospital itself.

"Where do you think de Roel would take Sherlock?" John asked 009. "Would they go right to the hospital, right to surgery?" He almost could not form the hideous words.

009 shook his head, reading from his mobile. "No, there will need to be extensive preparation physically, tests and drugs and so on, before they start the procedures. No, I think de Roel, if I understand the situation correctly, may want to play privately with Mr. Holmes a bit first."

John nodded grimly. "His private quarters, then," he said. 009 agreed.

"You know that the police are coming," 009 said. "Mr. Holmes has been reported kidnapped. The Swiss police have received a confidential report from my superiors."

"I’m fucking going in. I’m not waiting around for the Swiss police to saddle up. Are you going to help me get in there, or not?"

009 cocked an eyebrow. "Of course. Good call. I’ll jam the security system and open this door – here. You go in and find Mr. Holmes. I will hold off the guards, if necessary." They examined the building plans. There was a room attached to de Roel’s sleeping quarters that was labeled, ‘detention.’ John pointed at it. "This will be it, I know it."

009 analyzed the plans critically and nodded. "I believe you’re right. Go, I’‘ll cover you," and they started down the forested hill toward the rear wall of the clinic.

009 worked a little with his mobile, narrating in clipped syllables as he went. First he jammed the clinic’s security cameras with an endless visual loop that should hold them for a few critical minutes. Then he easily disabled the electrical fence surrounding the top of the wall and boosted John over it, then scaled it himself. They ran, crouching, to one of two steel doors to the rear of the clinic. There was a guard here, who glimpsed them running and went for his gun, but 009 threw a knife which stuck in this throat with a wet thunk, and he dropped the gun, gurgling. 009 dragged his body out of sight of the cameras and hid it in a trash bin. After a few moments, he entered the code in the steel door, and cracked it open, gun cocked. No one was there. He waved John in and John entered, senses vibrating. 009 slipped behind. They went swiftly through freshly painted gleaming white hallways, trying not to make any noise.

As they rounded a corner, John walked right into the barrel of a gun pressed cold and hard right between his eyes.

009 was able to fall back somehow and John was alone. The guard said something in French, then German, then finally English: "Don’t move." He relieved John of his gun and the extra clip, patting him down, then spoke quietly into his radio. He marched John down a long corridor, opened a door, and pushed him inside.

* * *

It was an exquisitely furnished room not unlike those in the Villa Diodati, but even John could see that the furniture and art here were all priceless antiques. The room was dim and windowless and was draped in some dark greenish velvet brocade. It was disorienting after the cold white anonymity of the newly constructed clinic hallways.

There was a man seated here in a dramatically carved Louis XVI chair, tanned and very fit with silver cropped hair and frosty blue eyes. He glanced at John and gestured to the guard to bring him forward.

"I knew you would come for Mr. Holmes," he said in cultured, accented English. The accent might have been French, but John could not be sure.

"Do you know who I am," he asked as though he really didn’t care whether John answered or not.

John was determined not to speak to him at all, falling back on military training. He was a prisoner now. De Roel looked at him more carefully, this time with a flicker of interest.

"Now Doctor Watson, really. For the moment, let us assume you are my guest. We don’t need to waste time. Do you know who I am?"

John decided that maybe he would get farther trying to engage the man in some conversation. Maybe he could learn something. "You are the Marquis de Roel," John said politely.

"I am. And since you are here, I am assuming you have somehow guessed that I have your — I am not sure I can say — slave -- we will discuss that, of course — Sherlock here. And by the look on your face, I believe you have even determined why I have him. Is that so?"

John nodded, trying to keep the sheer panic out of his expression. De Roel had the eyes of a pure psychopath. He had seen eyes like that, often enough, in Afghanistan. Not always in the enemy, either. His heart sank. The man was utterly mad.

How to talk to a madman? John did not have an extensive amount of formal psychiatric training but he had some, and had learned much in war. It was core experience for field doctors. You talk to a madman like they are not mad. They are the sane one. Enter their delusion, try and find the shape and boundary of the madness. Sometimes you could find a hook, a key, some way to divert the flow.

"I do know. It is fascinating," he said. "I did a great deal of reconstructive surgery, you know, in Afghanistan. It was not my field, but when forced, it is amazing what you can do." He hoped his voice sounded steady.

De Roel was delighted, his entire face lighting up with enthusiasm. "Indeed, I imagine it so, it must be pure — power, pure domination, to take that destroyed flesh and bring it back to the shape that YOU choose," he said, eyes avid.

John suppressed his impulse to tear the man limb from limb. He kept his face calm and even a little disdainful. "Oh, yes, it is. Exactly that. I would so like to see your work here, meet your doctors," he ventured. Maybe he could buy enough time that 009 and the Swiss police — and he realized how very unlikely that was. He waited.

* * *

De Roel ignored that gambit. "What I don’t understand, Doctor Watson, is your ridiculous indulgence toward Holmes. I know you are a serious dom. I have taken the trouble to confirm it. You and I are alike – in some ways. But you permit Holmes these freedoms, I have not seen the slightest discipline during your stay here, and it is very curious." De Roel waited, eyes gleaming. John knew that everything depended on his answer.

He thought for a minute, then said, with what he hoped was a mixture of boredom and amusement:

"Yes, well, you picked an odd time to look in on us, then. When I agreed to permit us to be filmed for your ‘show,’" here John nodded to indicate that he now understood the whole scenario to have been a trap, "I agreed privately that we would treat it as a sort of holiday from discipline. It would only have been for a week. At the time, it seemed as though it would be – a novelty, a game. But he was disobedient, kept trying to get me to punish him anyway."

De Roel nodded knowingly and John had his confirmation that there had been hidden cameras in their rooms.

"As I had said that I would not, during this trip, I refused. Why should I punish according to his demands? Better to make him wait, until I am ready. If you had not taken him, the disobedience would have been – addressed, when we got back to London."

De Roel considered this, then nodded. But he was not completely buying.

Here he pressed a button in a little box on the table next to his chair, and a curtain at the far wall pulled back. And there was Sherlock, his hands bound somehow behind his back, bent slightly over a padded and angled platform that supported his chest. He was gagged. He was naked from the waist but still wore his ruffled linen shirt. He was conscious but somehow his vision was clouded and John realized he had been drugged. But from his appearance John could see that he was coming out of it and was fully aware of what was happening.

After a fleeting moment when their eyes met, electric with fear and even then, desperate love, John turned away.

* * *

This was almost more than John could bear, the fury that anyone should dare to do this to Sherlock, that he could not free him then and there, it was torture. But bear it he must, for de Roel was examining him closely. John decided a sneer would be appropriate.

"Not very clean, is he?" John said coldly. "What have you been doing with him?"

De Roel nodded in agreement. "Nothing, yet. But you are right. I can’t abide an unclean slave, myself, this should have been dealt with. Your appearance put us a bit off schedule."

He gestured and John noticed that there was another guard here, and Shelley, too, looking uncertain. The guard forced Shelley to kneel, then went to Sherlock and wiped him down thoroughly with some damp towels, and combed his hair a little. Every instant was an agony to John, but he forced himself to watch impassively, with a slight expression of disgust.

De Roel approached Sherlock, examining him with eyes that were endlessly cruel. He did not touch him, however. Sherlock struggled. De Roel nodded, as though confirming something important.

"You see," de Roel said, "I don't have to compromise. At all. Ever. In my world, for what I am able to pay, these slave sales are supposed to satisfy every possible desire but, you see, when you want exactly, precisely, this face, this body -- " here he indicated Sherlock, but still did not touch -- "together with perfect desire for obedience, in fact passion for obedience, well, I want what I want. Without compromise.

"I tried to buy him, you know. He wouldn't sign, of course. Arrogant. Thinks himself too good. A slave should not over-value himself. But there it is.

"And the reports of the very, very select few that had been -- privileged, I imagine Sherlock would call it -- to sample the goods, well, the report was very unsatisfactory. Looks like an angel, yes of course; a mouth that was made to beg. But too high a tolerance for pain. He thinks the pain is there for his own amusement, his own satisfaction. An experiment, even. Nothing could be further from the truth.

"I inflict pain for my own pleasure. You see, I don't even care to inflict it as punishment. I am too old, to impatient, to deal with discipline for the purpose of discipline, you see. I don't want disobedience. Can't abide it -- I want what I want, without flaw, without fail, without delay.

"The reports were also that he is shockingly arrogant. Willfully disobedient. As you say – he disobeyed you on this little trip, would not comply with his master’s instructions, with your rules. A very poor quality in a slave. This whole game of topping from below, well, it's a sacrilege. Again, others feel differently. There it is. Some, it is true, find that breaking a slave is a pleasurable task. I find it unspeakably tedious. Obedience, absolute and total, is what I want. Why should I have to work for it? I don't work for anyone or anything, any more. Haven't for many, many years.

"So, then, why Sherlock Holmes, since I can easily buy what I want? Well. As it turns out, not in this case. The qualities of true obedience, of total submission, to me and to pain, the absence of desire for any kind of narrative relating to punishment for its own sake -- these can be found. But these are not to be found in our magnificent Sherlock Holmes. And something about dear Sherlock has captured my imagination. I can't deny it — and I don't wish to.

"I cannot get his face, particularly something in the expression of the eyes -- out of my mind. But I am also a man who does not enjoy fantasy. I like reality, I want my pleasures to be real, I don't want to dream of things. Dreaming is a torture that only those without means to buy what they want must suffer.

"And so, I have done it. My slave, Eric, wishes to become my perfect slave, in every way. The effort so far has taken two years. My earlier efforts . . .failed. Nothing could be properly be done with the face to make it truly satisfactory, before. And although the body is absolutely essential, I think I have got that just about perfect. Bone lengthening of the upper and lower legs, and particularly the fingers. Sherlock’s fingers are remarkably long. And now, in just the past two years, such strides have been made with facial transplant. And Eric has already had extensive facial reconstruction to prepare. Cheekbone implants, essential. Jaw reconstruction, just a touch. Teeth, of course. Hairline, lowered a bit. The eyes we will do a bit more with, after the transplant. Just lovely.

"Now, to achieve perfection, absolute perfection, it only remains to perform the full facial transplant. Tongue, unfortunately no. Pity. Reports are that what Sherlock can do with his lips, tongue, the mouth altogether, are an indescribable pleasure. Well, you know.

"And vocal training, too – two years of it. Vocal cord surgery as well. Lowered the tone almost an octave. I assure you Eric’s voice will be indistinguishable from Sherlock Holmes to anyone, perhaps, except you, of course.

"Now Doctor Watson. I have a plan. Before the procedure, it would give me a great deal of pleasure to see what Sherlock is capable of, perhaps, if he submitted to someone to whom he has a genuine desire to submit. I have been watching you very carefully. And I have discovered that despite his arrogance, there is one person to whom Sherlock does, in fact, desire to submit. To submit fully."

Here de Roel held up the shockingly intimate photograph of John and Sherlock at the fencing studio, kissing, blood smearing both their mouths. John did not think it was possible for his body to become colder, more shocked, but it was.

"That's surprised you! Gerald works for me. I learned from Irene (no, she’s not in league with me, she is a puppet, just like you are) that Sherlock intended to take up fencing for the production. I arranged for Gerald to be placed there. We did not expect you to be there, Doctor Watson. At any rate. Gerald was supposed to cut Sherlock — to film it for my own private amusement. What an unexpected gift I was given."

He took back the photo and looked on it longingly. "I would pay anything at all to have been you, Doctor Watson, at that moment. And look, you throw away the gift!! Truly pearls before swine, as the Bible says." Here he held up another photograph of John walking away from Sherlock, the sword just landing on the floor where he had thrown it.

"Now, Sherlock will very likely make me a number of wild promises here, that he will be very, very good and obedient indeed to me, be my slave for life, do anything I like, any way that I like, if I will just let you go and let him live. And believe me, I have considered it. Very carefully. But I cannot be fooled.

"I am an connoisseur of submission. And coerced submission is distasteful in the extreme. No, it won't do."

De Roel was almost about to touch Sherlock’s face, his lips, John thought. He could not bear it. He had to distract de Roel. He had a stroke of inspiration.

"He’s been quite a slut, you know. Today," John said.

"Oh? Whatever do you mean, Doctor Watson?"

"I mean that twink Shelley. There is a telescope at Villa Diodati. I saw them on the boat. Shelley sucked him off. After I expressly forbade him to touch him. And of course, after Sherlock here had been instructed as to my wishes in the matter.

"I believe that some discipline is in order. Overdue, even." He made a gesture as though inviting de Roel. It was the form. Although de Roel held them as prisoners, John still retained his rights as Sherlock’s master. If de Roel wished to be correct about it, he would not completely ignore them.

De Roel sighed with disappointment. He was buying it. Shelley was babbling denials but with a swift gesture of de Roel’s hand, he shut up. De Roel told the guard to take Shelley to his quarters and restrain him to await his pleasure. The guard took Shelley away.

Now there was only one guard. That John could see anyway. Where the hell was 009?

 

* * *

De Roel turned to John. "I am not so discourteous, Doctor Watson. And as I said, it would give me great pleasure to see Holmes submit to one to whom he desires to submit. I believe it is your right here to address this misbehavior," de Roel said. He pressed another button and there was a wall of various tools and toys of bondage and discipline there. De Roel waved him on.

"If you please, Doctor."

John suppressed a shiver. This had to look good. He strode confidently toward the wall, handling the tools with doctorish precision, muttering, rejecting. He pulled the cat-o-nine tails down and walked around with it a bit, swinging it, getting its heft. Letting Sherlock see him do it, and feeling awful as he saw that Sherlock was preparing for him to use it.

He walked around a little more with the whip and as he did so, he was able to get the briefest glimpse of the restraints behind Sherlock’s back.

His heart sang.

They were simple handcuffs.

He slapped the ends of the cat-o-nine tails against his palm a few times and was able to work one of the slender metal spikes off the tip of one of the thongs. He concealed it in his palm and returned it to the wall. Then he took down a long black flexible flogger.

"This will do," John said in a bored tone. "But I want him to count them out. May I remove the gag?" He asked. De Roel nodded, but also glanced at the guard to be sure John remembered the gun. John expertly removed the gag, bending over a bit to undo the buckle. He whispered low into Sherlock’s ear:

"Make it look good."

Without further hesitation he swung the flogger hard on Sherlock’s arse with a tremendous slap, and Sherlock said, "One," with a little groan.

He was already flushing brightly where the flogger had struck him. It was so gorgeous, that John had to close his eyes for a moment.

Then John swung again, this time two in rapid succession, harder this time but perhaps not as hard as Sherlock was making it sound, now groaning dramatically. De Roel was watching with the harsh judgment of a connoisseur. John needed to pump up the volume a little.

As he swung in for four, he said,

"Now Sherlock, how many do you think you deserve for disobeying me and letting that slut Shelley suck you?"

Sherlock was squirming a little but he hung his head, ashamed. "Ten, master," he said, properly submissive.

John swung again, his arse really getting red now.

"And how dare you presume to say that? The correct answer is as many as will please you, master," John said sternly, and laid into him again.

Sherlock repeated with what sounded like sincere repentance mixed with lust, "I am sorry, master, please, as many as will be pleasing to you will be correct, master," He said.

His tone was properly wounded, remorseful, and choked with frustrated longing. A few tears dropped from his eyelashes. John swallowed and trembled. He didn't think he could take much more of this.

After eleven, he let a plea escape his lips: "Please, master." John immediately made as though to yank on his handcuffs in disapproval.

"I didn’t ask you to speak, Sherlock. ‘Please’ is not a number. That’s back to ten, then." As he yanked on the handcuffs he passed the flexible spike into Sherlock’s palm, and was faint with relief when his fingers grabbed it, strong and capable.

"Possibly your mouth needs better employment," John said, flogging him again. Then he threw the flogger aside. He firmly repressed any sensation of desire. He would not pollute what he shared with Sherlock for the amusement of a monster.

De Roel was in a frenzy at this point, half out of his chair. John beckoned him courteously. "Sherlock, take care of your new master, and don’t disappoint me."

De Roel approached, his eyes shining as though he was in a dream. John moved his hands down a little. He was damned if he would debase Sherlock further for this devil’s pleasure. But he could pretend a little. In a moment de Roel wouldn’t be looking at John anyway.

John kept his temper under an iron will to stop himself from strangling the man right then. He was dripping with cold sweat.

The guard was very alert and stayed close by, but at a respectful distance.

De Roel was about to attempt to thrust into Sherlock’s mouth, an expression of luxurious anticipation on his face as he gasped, "Oh," and paused. John could feel Sherlock’s hands working furiously with the spike and he bent over to shield him.

John stroked de Roel’s chest with his hands, distracting him. De Roel’s eyes closed. John leaned in to kiss de Roel’s open mouth, pulling him close. And de Roel, in a sensual delerium, permitted John to kiss him, all tongue and teeth and grunting.

And then John, his heart pounding in his chest so that he thought it would burst, spit out the little tube into de Roel’s mouth, precisely between the man’s perfect teeth, and pressed on his jaw, hard, so that it would look like a rough kiss to the guard.

There was a tiny crunch.

John held de Roel close to muffle de Roel’s brief gurgle and shudder as the poison killed him instantly and his body slumped. John held him up.

At that moment, Sherlock shrugged out of the handcuffs, snaked a hand into de Roel’s trousers, withdrew a pocket Swiss Army knife, pressed the button that shot out the little blade, and flung it at the guard with a deadly flick of his wrist. It pierced his temple and he fell like a stone, twitching, gun clattering.

John threw de Roel’s body to the ground with horror.

Sherlock and John fell into each other’s arms, sobbing and gasping. John mumbled, "I’m sorry, I’m so sorry," against Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock was kissing him wildly everywhere he could reach until John stopped him.

"We have to get out of here, now," John said.

They stripped the guard of his clothes and hid his body behind the curtain, then dressed Sherlock in the guard’s uniform. Sherlock gave John the gun.

Just then, the door opened and John aimed steadily to fire at whatever came through.

It was 009, bleeding from a head wound, with about a hundred Swiss police in swat gear.

It was over.


	9. Control

 

John was all for quitting Switzerland immediately.

"Now, right now," he said as they left the police station in Geneva, having given their statements. "By the very next flight, look, there's one in an hour."

Sherlock frowned distractedly, attacking his mobile. "I've been asked to assist the Swiss police with their inquiries --- I can do more here than in Baker Street," Sherlock reasoned.

John stopped in his tracks, arms folded. A flood of dour-faced, yet prosperous-looking Swiss businessmen moved around him like lemmings on their determined ways. Sherlock, sensing John was no longer at his side, turned to see him scowling and fuming. Then Sherlock stopped too, even putting his mobile away for a moment.

"John, really, first: there are the twenty plastic surgeons. How much did any of them know about where de Roel was going to get the -- tissue -- "

John started shifting his weight one foot then the other, fists clenching and unclenching.

"Second: there is apparently some evidence that de Roel's last "Eric" died while undergoing extreme facial reconstruction ---"

John was flexing his fingers as though itching to pull a trigger.

"And third, there are the videos -- the police say de Roel may be a serial killer of unprecedented depravity -" Sherlock's entire face lit with gleeful anticipation and his arm gestures were positively operatic.

John exploded. "Bloody hell, Sherlock, would you just listen to yourself, for one second! You are the last person that needs to be digging into this -- this -- grotesque mess. That. Was. Your face. He wanted. Have you ever stopped to consider what would have happened if I hadn't gotten there in time?"

Sherlock was about to explain in great detail his plan -- well, what had been the beginnings of a plan, anyway, to be strictly accurate: he had been drugged, after all; and even his formidable brain did not work in optimum ways when he was completely unconscious--- but, after perceiving the ill-concealed signs of extreme distress in John's face -- flushed, voice shaking, he stopped; and simply put his hand on John's shoulder to steady him.

"I have an idea," he said. John looked skeptical as Sherlock made a hurried phone call, head ducked down, concluding with the unprecedented words, uttered in a tone of exasperation:

"Yes, of course, certainly, Mummy."

* * *

 

John had refused to return to Villa Diodati, wishing to forever close the chapter on their strange costumed adventure. They had arranged for their bags to be delivered to their anonymous Geneva hotel, which Sherlock had chosen for being just a block from the police station.

That afternoon, though, shortly after the mysterious phone call, Sherlock said, "We are leaving now," and they went down to find a hired car waiting which Sherlock insisted on driving, something that John had never experienced and which was quite terrifying.

He refused to say where they were going, but had a small secret smile and so, John decided to let him have his way. Higher up the mountains they climbed through treacherous twisting snowy roads, until after an hour they reached the outskirts of the picturesque little ski village Les Diablerets, looking over the surrounding glacier and the Alps. They turned up a long, snowy drive to arrive at a ski chalet. "Courtesy of Mother," Sherlock said, but did not elaborate as he unlocked the door.

Inside, surprisingly, all was sleek modern Italian leather furniture, with huge glass windows looking out over the snowy Alps and the village below. And suddenly John was overtaken by a sensation of deja vu as his vague expectation of a cozy Swiss cottage was turned upside down, recalling the feeling of marching through de Roel's gleaming white modern halls, only to be plunged into his baroque den of vice.

But John shrugged off his feelings of unease. Sherlock was studying him closely and he saw that Sherlock was actually anxious that he be pleased, that this was for him; a peaceful retreat after their ordeal. He felt an unaccustomed sensation of warmth and comfort at his feelings being understood, and he was content, for the first time since setting foot in Switzerland.

"Thank you," he said, suddenly overwhelmed. Sherlock said triumphantly, "I knew you'd like it," as though knowing this about John was the most marvelous discovery imaginable.

* * *

It must be said that John did not ski. Sherlock, though, was very skilled, the family having enjoyed ski breaks at this chalet throughout his childhood. Now, he evidently wanted revenge for John having shown him up with his secret fencing skill. They ventured out onto the gentler slopes, where John took numerous undignified tumbles, after which Sherlock behaved quite considerately, even gentlemanly; making sure always to be right at John's side to assist him up and not laughing at all as he gently brushed the snow from John's hair.

Finally, they came to a mutual agreement that cross-country skiing would possibly be more rewarding.

They picked up a week's worth of provisions. John surveyed the pristine, modern kitchen with a thrill of satisfaction. Here was an environment which held no forensic debris, mortuary residue, or unclean experimental fungi. All was gleaming white, stainless steel, a vast Sub-Zero refrigerator, and rows of spotless matching knives, pots and pans.

He would cook dinner, something that he had never attempted in 221b. So far as he could recall, the only human comestibles that ever emerged from their kitchen were tea, and beans on toast.

Then he remembered that his own repertoire was exceedingly limited, not having had any opportunity to ever actually prepare his own meals in Afghanistan; before that, well, medical school and residency do not breed chefs. He found a few cookbooks on the shelf with mouth-watering pictures -- but all in French. Finally he settled on roast chicken and jacket potatoes which he was fairly sure he could manage, or at least not ruin. To his extreme satisfaction --which he tried very hard to conceal behind a bland poker face-- Sherlock actually ate steadily, without complaining, fidgeting or any need for John to coax him bite by bite. Possibly the altitude and vigorous skiing actually brought out Sherlock's inhumanly erratic appetite. This was roughly the equivalent of earning a Michellin star as far as John was concerned.

* * *

They had not spoken of their ordeal. But after dinner, John was not surprised to find Sherlock standing in the kitchen, staring at the partially healed cut on his palm. John took the wounded hand and covered it with his own.

"What are you thinking?" He asked. Sherlock was looking away, shoulders suddenly hunched. "I want to understand."

"When I was a boy," he said, very quietly, "There was a sort of --fad, I suppose you'd call it -- at school. The boys would cut each other's palms, and then shake hands. It meant they were blood brothers. A blood brother was loyal, would keep your secrets, would never -- betray you."

Sherlock almost never spoke of his childhood. John felt a flood of anger for that boy, all those years ago. He couldn't bear it, he didn't think his chest could contain this feeling.

Silently he took a knife from the gleaming set on the kitchen counter and drew it across his own palm, blood welling up. He wordlessly handed the blade to Sherlock and their eyes met, John's fierce, Sherlock's wide with something that might have been wonder. Sherlock reopened the cut from John's sword, and they clasped hands, hard, their cuts stinging, the warm blood slick and wet between their pressed palms. A strange happiness filled them and John understood why men had always done this. And then it was turning to something else, something darker, primitive. John pulled Sherlock down roughly to take his mouth with his own.

* * *

The next morning they decided to hike the glacier, called Glacier 3000 for its elevation at 3000 meters. They brought cross-country skis as well. They took a tram to a high trail head, looking out over the panorama of impossibly towering snow-capped peaks, then began making their way in the crystalline air along the glacier's edge. It glowed pale blue and ancient in the clear sharp winter sunlight.

"Why is it called 'Les Diablerets'?" John asked breathlessly. They were at 3100 meters now and the thin air made everything a little strenuous. Though he was very fit, he felt almost a bit lightheaded as they trudged.

Sherlock pointed below to a dark granite rock face looming over the Alpine village. "In French, it roughly means, 'the abode of the devil.' In the 'olden days,' the villagers thought that the rock had a malevolent power, that it was a place one could meet the devil himself, face to face.

"Also, it was said that the glacier itself was a curse from a villager's diabolically cruel acts -- it is not said what acts, only that they were unspeakably cruel --- and this caused the meadow to shrivel away overnight, replaced by this barren ice field -- by the devil. "

John shivered and looked cautiously down upon the dark rock. Sherlock smiled. He was obsessed with the mercurial expressiveness of John's slightly rumpled face, upon which a dozen different expressions, feelings, emotions might pass in the course of mere seconds, like ripples in water after a rock is thrown in. It was magical and maddening and he never could anticipate them, which was in itself fascinating.

"It is just a folk tale, John."

* * *

They found a pristine field of snow and decided to practice their cross-country technique. John sat to apply wax tape to his skis and Sherlock said he would open up the trail. They were in still, hushed solitude. Sherlock crunched expertly through the fresh snow, trudging along the edges of the precipice affording panoramic views of the blue glacier. John became exasperated with his tangled bindings and patiently began plucking them loose.

The deafening motor of a snowmobile, that moments before had seemed very distant, suddenly roared explosively and it came crashing through the field, spraying snow and careening wildly until it spun to a stop just in front of Sherlock, who was now quite far ahead, although still in view. The driver of the snowmobile climbed out awkwardly, stumbling in the deep snow, and seemed to be reaching out to Sherlock for assistance.

John felt a twinge of alarm and swore when his skis became tangled and he flopped gracelessly into the powdery snow. He heard Sherlock shout, "John, stay back, it's all right," his voice suddenly seeming alarmingly distant, echoing. He could see Sherlock reaching out to the figure, who was so tall, in fact precisely Sherlock's height, so as to likely be a man. His face was covered by hood, ski mask and goggles despite the relatively mild winter sun.

"Sherlock, what is it?" he called, only to see a brief precise explosion of snow at his feet. The man's arm was now pointing at John. He now thought he could make out the black outline of a gun in the man's gloved hand. A silencer, then. He swore again as he remembered leaving the gun in the chalet. The figure swerved to point now at Sherlock, who was quite out of arm's reach of the gunman.

"John, please stay back," Sherlock shouted again. John could hear them talking but could not make out the words. He started slowly working with as little motion as possible while it seemed the gunman's attention was completely focused on Sherlock.

* * *

"Do you know who I am?" the masked man asked Sherlock. It was remarkable. The cultured baritone accents were precisely, exactly Sherlock's own, as though Sherlock had become a ventriloquist.

"You are Eric," Sherlock said calmly. "Put the gun down, I can't talk to you properly unless you do."

The man sneered. "You will have to try harder. And you are wrong, the great Sherlock Holmes is wrong. You see, I am not 'Eric.' I gave him up, long ago now. I am Sherlock Holmes."

"You don't have to be, not any more. Don't you see? De Roel is dead, you don't have to be anyone now but who you are, really are inside," Sherlock said. Eric scoffed and removed his goggles, then the hood and mask.

Now Sherlock could see de Roel's true madness. For Eric, despite the freshly healing surgical scars at the hairline and around the ears, was an identical twin to Sherlock in every respect. Every feature had been molded with precision by the finest surgeons in the world, to De Roel's exacting specifications. The facial transplant was the craving of a madman for a perfection that existed only in his imagination. Eric was Sherlock's mirror. His doppelganger.

Eric studied Sherlock with fierce concentration. "I cannot understand it," he said in Sherlock's voice, his intonation. "I am perfect, I was making myself even more perfect," he gestured to his legs, supported by metal braces. His free arm was also in a long brace with a supportive crutch upon which he leaned, holding the gun with his free hand. His fingers were bulky under the gloves but he somehow contrived to handle the gun, which was enormous and had a long silencer. "But he was never satisfied. It was you, only you that he wanted."

Sherlock shook his head. "I heard him say it, that you were perfect, that it was your particular -- spirit, that he really wanted."

Eric shook his head. He was weeping now. "It's not true. Because you see, I was there. He ordered me to watch. That day. And I heard what he said. If your master had not killed my master, I know he would have changed his mind. I could see it in his face. Once he really had you, really tasted --" he spat the words -- "he would never have destroyed you. No, in that moment, it was very clear to me. I did not have his love. After all this," He gestured to his fresh scars, the braces. "--- what I have been through, what I have suffered, for his acceptance, for his love, you can never understand."

"But I want to understand," Sherlock said. "Tell me, please, I want to know. Why did you do this?"

Eric actually laughed. "I'm not stupid, you know. He knew your brilliance, wanted that, too --he chose me for that, as well. You already know why I did it."

Sherlock saw that he did. "Because you needed to submit. To him. To his wishes, only his. You needed to give up all . . . control, everything to him. Even, finally, control of your body, all of it --your -- flesh, far more than a slave would ever dream of giving, or a master of asking. You reduced yourself to an assembly of body parts, molded to de Roel's . . .requirements. That is not love. But you can still find it. It's not too late for you," Sherlock said, a flashing vision of the long years before John.

"Clever, indeed. You are right. What I gave him was the supreme gift. My flesh, down to my very bones. No one every gave more; willingly, at any rate. And it was not enough. You can never know what that feels like. Your master loves you, he honors you." Eric nodded his head minutely in John's direction.

"He is not my master."

"Wrong again. Not as clever as you think you are, then. You know that he is your master, and he knows it, too. My master said to Doctor Watson that he would give anything, anything at all, to have been him."

Sherlock tried to inch closer. If he could just get close enough to knock the gun away--

"It was really you that took my master from me, not Doctor Watson. And I will give myself to Doctor Watson, and he will love me. I have seen it. I know that he will. But not until you are destroyed. I will destroy you. I must. That will make me free."

John had quietly clenched the roll of wax tape in his hand and now he flung it forcefully to the side of where Eric stood, just raising the gun, creating an explosion of snow that distracted him just enough for Sherlock to dive at Eric, who screamed as the impact jolted his braced, unhealed limbs, and he rolled over the edge of the precipice.

Sherlock sprang to the edge.

Eric was vainly clinging with his wounded hands to the edge of an icy rock, slick with melted snow. The gun he had dropped far below.

The vertical drop to the glittering glacier was thousands of meters down.

Sherlock reached down. "Give me your hand! " he shouted, crouching and straining, then rolling onto his side because of the skis. There was nothing to brace himself with, and his fingertips brushed Eric's hand as he struggled to try and pull himself up, shrieking with the pain.

Now John was here, too, holding a ski down for Eric to grip; but at that moment, Eric clasped Sherlock's hand, looking up into his face with an expression of endless despair as he yanked, hard, trying to pull Sherlock down the precipice after him.

John gasped in horror when he saw Sherlock's twin face, but threw himself down and pulled back on Sherlock to resist with all of his strength.

Sherlock shouted, "Stop, don't do it, Eric, let us help you!"

Eric made a final desperate tug.

And the bandage enveloping Sherlock's cut palm slipped, unravelled and gave way under Eric's death grip.

Eric plummeted silently, a falling angel, before striking the dark granite face of Les Diablerets, and then finally tumbling to the glacier ice far below. The bloody bandage fluttered on the wind after him.

* * *

The business with the police took hours, but finally in the early morning well before dawn, John and Sherlock returned to the chalet. John poured them stiff brandies and they settled before the huge window that looked out over the tiny glittering lights of the village. In the darkness, the looming Alps and glacier of Les Diablerets could not be seen.

John was very shaken. "It looked just like you. Falling." He held Sherlock tight. He would never get the image from his mind, ever. Sherlock kissed John's hair.

"Do you know," Sherlock said, "that just before Shelley died, he told Mary Shelley that he was dreaming of a twin apparition, walking by to meet himself on a terrace. And then their friend Jane Williams saw Shelley passing by on her terrace, and he vanished. Shelley was dead. He wrote of this incident, it would seem to have been a premonition if such things exist. In 'Prometheus Unbound,' Shelley wrote:

_"The Magus Zoroaster, my dead child,_

_Met his own image walking in the garden._

_That apparition, sole of men, he saw._

_For know there are two worlds of life and death:_

_One that which thou beholdest; but the other_

_Is underneath the grave, where do inhabit_

_The shadows of all forms that think and live_

_Till death unite them and they part no more. . ."_

They drank more brandy, and John said, "Never leave me. You can't die, you can't do this to me. You have to stop all this. I just can't --I don't know if I can see you risk your life, every day. Anymore. Don't you understand?"

"It's no more than you did. In Afghanistan."

There was really no answer to that. They went upstairs to the bedroom where Sherlock hesitated. His eyes had that particular intensity that John was starting to understand.

"Eric said . . . you are my master. That you know it, and that I know it."

John was still and the very air between then seemed to fairly vibrate with electricity. He breathed deeply, feeling a thrilling, wild darkness rising that he had long suppressed. But when he gathered himself he was rock steady.

"The safe word, Sherlock, is 'stop'. Get on your knees, love. And get ready."

Sherlock quickly and quietly disrobed and knelt at the foot of the bed. John permitted himself to taste this very particular moment, a crossing from which they might not return as they were before.

Sherlock's face was very peaceful as he waited.

The riding crop was just where John had left it.

He lashed him hard.

"One," Sherlock counted.

 

 

The End . . . .

 

 

Feedback is always very gratefully appreciated:)

_For other Johnlock adventures, I invite you to my Indestructible series, here on AO3.  
_


	10. Sherlock as Lord Byron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock as Lord Byron


	11. Afterword - Updated

I read the following works in writing this quasi-AU:

1\. Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus, Mary Shelley (1818 edition, Oxford World's Classics). The 1831 revised edition of Frankstein significantly alters Mary Shelley's original themes and vision. The differences relate to the role of fate. In the 1818 edition, Frankenstein has free will, but by the 1831 edition is depicted as a sort of puppet to forces outside his control.  
2\. Byron, the Major Works (Oxford World's Classics);  
3\. Shelley, the Complete Poetical Works (Oxford Edition);  
4\. Journal of a West India Proprietor, by Matthew G. Lewis;  
2\. Frankenstein, a new play by Nick Dear;  
3\. Mary Shelley, by Miranda Seymour;  
4\. Byron, Child of Passion, Fool of Fame, by Benita Eisler;  
5\. The Diary of Doctor John William Polidori, Edited by William Michael Rossetti;  
6\. Shelley, The Pursuit, by Richard Holmes;  
7\. The Haunted Summer, by Anne Edwards.

Also, I recommend the following films:

Byron, starring Jonny Lee Miller.  
Gothic, starring Gabriel Byrne, dir. Ken Russell.  
Rowing With the Wind, starring Hugh Grant  
Frankenstein, The True Story, starring James Mason, Michael Sarazin and Jane Seymour  
Frankenstein (1931, Dir. James Whale), and Bride of Frankenstein (1935, Dir James Whale) -- (Bit of trivia, Mark Gatiss wrote a very engrossing biography of James Whale. And so, we come full circle.)

Thank you for reading Mad, Bad and Dangerous.


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